


Tricks of the Mind

by ganjachan



Series: Tricks of the Mind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganjachan/pseuds/ganjachan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, after a series of disturbing events, is coming to terms with his sexuality; however, Sherlock seems to be eager to destroy his newly regained balance. Or is he? John starts to wonder whether there's more to it than just what his mind suggests. Especially as Sherlock starts to behave in a weird way... In the end John makes up his mind, which leads to even more emotional turmoil, people get killed and John is almost too late, but all ends well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear All, I know I've been away for a long time (did you miss me? ;)), but here I am, bringing you an updated version of this fic. I have deleted the sequel, because the idea has matured in my head and I'm planning on rewriting it in a completely different way, a lot darker and tougher psychologically. In the meantime, please enjoy the first part - Tricks of the Mind.

John slumped onto the bed, still in the same clothes he had been wearing all day, but too exhausted to change. He removed only his belt, which had been digging painfully into his abdomen. He threw it onto the floor. He needed sleep so bad that cleaning up was optional.

As he was slowly drifting off to the realm of dreams, his thoughts began to wander. Using what remained of his willpower, he tried to reject any single one that concerned the case that had solved this day. He had learned the trick during his therapy and knew better than to allow his mind to linger on things that would probably keep it awake all night, making him invent better scenarios in his head for things that were already in the past and thus beyond his control, and eventually making him mentally slap himself for not being even remotely close to what he considered a good person.

He knew that nobody was perfect, but the mistakes he had made would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Like when this kid got shot in the head right in front of him. It wasn't his fault, it was war. He couldn't have done anything. But there was that time when he was stitching that one guy, and the stitch had come out uneven and the guy's face would be deformed. John felt responsible for the stitch, even though the guy was yelling and tossing his head around and it was a miracle that John didn't take out his eye. The therapist said that it certainly wasn't his fault and yet the thought itself provoked uneasi-

And he was doing that again. Well, at least he wasn't thinking about the case.

He mentally kicked these thoughts out of his head and decided to take a shower, as he was already more awake than when he had lain down. He grabbed his pyjamas from under the pillow and dragged himself along to the bathroom downstairs. There, he undressed and stepped into the shower, trying not to look at the fine new wrinkles forming on his forehead, clearly visible in the mirror above the sink.

The warm water trickling down his back felt so good and he realized how sweaty and dirty he had been all day. He imagined that his bad thoughts were being washed away as well. While reaching for his 3-in-1 shower gel, he accidentally knocked over Sherlock's shampoo. The bottle opened and some of the thick, transparent liquid spilled onto the shower shelf and John's hands. He fumbled with the bottle to close it. He certainly didn't want to have to buy Sherlock more shampoo, as it looked like one that you could only get for a ridiculous amount of money from some gay designer hairdresser's place.

Using a shampoo separately from the shower gel was already quite gay. He had never thought of that before. Surely Sherlock would justify his decision to own a separate shampoo by saying that in the course of one of his experiments he had discovered that it stimulated his neurons in a different way. Or something. But it was,  nevertheless, gay.

Great, now everything smelled like Sherlock's hair. Not that John had ever purposefully smelled it before. It was just somehow that when people start sweating, you can smell their shampoo, that's all. He tried to ignore the expensive, perfumed scent while he was washing his hair and body with his own cheap citrus shower gel, and remembered that thinking of sex was always a good option when it came to distractions. It could get him sleepy as well.

Having rinsed his hair, he started off with thinking about Sarah and the perfect shape of her breasts under a shirt. They were just about the right size to squeeze in a hand. And he would first circle his thumbs around the nipples. Then kiss them. Suck each one and feel it go nice and hard, and that certainly wasn't the only thing that was going nice and hard at that moment. He imagined her hands reaching down and stroking slowly, then her getting on her knees and taking him into her mouth.

John was stroking himself with a soaped hand and pleasure was slowly building up in his belly. He opened his mouth and let a soft sigh escape it while drops of water trickled inside. It was blissful. He changed the angle at which he was moving his hand and shivered, it felt so good. He took a big gulp of air and imagined how Sarah would look with her face flushed and eyes full of passion, awaiting what would soon come...

But his mind played a trick on him and instead of Sarah, provided him with a clear image of Sherlock.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he exclaimed and almost slipped on the wet shower floor. He leaned on the wall for support. His heart was beating furiously and he couldn't tell whether it was because of the masturbation, or because of the image of his flatmate sucking him off.

He closed his eyes, massaged his temples and decided that it had been a very hard day and that it was that bloody scent all around him that had made his mind place Sherlock down there. He steadied his breath and heard Sherlock's voice from behind the door, "John, is everything all right?"

"Yes. Yes. Everything's fine. Perfectly fine," John answered, still panting, his voice slightly more panicky than usual.

He decided that was enough, turned the water off, stepped out and dried himself. He put on his worn-out pyjamas, had one more look at his wrinkles in the mirror and walked back into the living room. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, his face blank. He was following John with his eyes.

"Good night," John said and proceeded to his bedroom.

"John,"Sherlock called after him. John turned to look at him. "I know you were masturbating," all said with the same expressionless face.

John felt his shoulders drop. He sighed. "Great deduction, Sherlock, but you aren't ten years old. People sometime _do_ masturbate and you should as well if you ever feel like being less of a pain in the ass."

He suddenly felt very tired and didn't want to pursue the topic anymore at the moment or at any moment whatsoever, so he simply turned and went upstairs to his bedroom, cursing in his mind the damned shampoo.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning. John went downstairs, the perfumed scent of Sherlock's shampoo still lingering everywhere around him, clinging to his nose. And Sherlock was still sprawled on the sofa the way he had been the night before, with his head on one armrest and his legs bent and resting against the other. The detective's lips were slightly parted and he was breathing peacefully, his slim chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. John was drawn to him; he couldn't help but notice how soft the skin on his flatmate's throat looked; so pale, almost translucent. He had never noticed that before, but Sherlock wore his shirts without a tie so that he could expose a bit more of his long, marvelous neck.

As he was staring at that immaculate fragment of exposed skin, he didn't notice that Sherlock had closed his mouth and was staring back at him with his eyelids half-closed, without contempt but more with curiosity and something else that John couldn't name but that pleased him greatly. Their eyes met and John couldn't help the heat that stirred deep down in his stomach. Sherlock slowly rose from the sofa and without a word approached John. The detective's eyes were dark when he raised his hand to stroke John's cheek, and John could only stand there open-mouthed with Sherlock in all his tall and slender glory towering over him. John could see the a vein on his neck throbbing slightly with every heartbeat and he felt an urge to bite that particular spot.

Sherlock stroked John's bottom lip with his thumb and bared his teeth in a very sensual way that John  hadn't even realised turned him on. Their bodies were already touching, the warmth spreading through John's gut and exploding as he felt a hand touching him down there through his pyjamas, and he heard the low growl that was definitely not his, and he moaned softly, against his will, but the sound was muffled by the lips that were pressed against his mouth...

John sat bolt upright in his bed, clutching the sheets to his chest and gasping for air. The first things he noticed were that he definitely had a hard-on, that he was sweaty all over and that his heart was beating as fast as if he had just run a marathon. But it was only a dream. There was no Sherlock kissing and groping him, the thought of which made him shiver with disgust, and the morning wood was, after all, a perfectly normal thing that happened probably to every male human being in the world. Even Sherlock had to have morning wood sometimes, which was not a good thing to think about at that very moment.

Pushing the thoughts aside willingly, John put on his bathrobe and went down the stairs to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch, in the same way he had been the night before and in John's dream. But he was snoring like a lawn mower. John knew that it was only an act as Sherlock never snored, but apparently he considered it amusing. However, thanks to that, John had no problem convincing himself that this wasn't another part of his weird dream and that he was in no way attracted to that nutter, as a heterosexual male, for God's sake. Yet... apart from the snoring and generally not-yet-out-of-bed appearance, he had to admit that Sherlock's vibrating throat really did look kind of kissable...

The snoring ceased and their gazes locked before John could throw the Union Jack pillow at his flatmate. He cleared his throat and proceeded to the kitchen as if nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened, it was just an unfortunate dream induced by yesterday's equally unfortunate shampoo spill.  Not reality.

"Good morning,"he said when he was safely away from Sherlock's gaze. The detective grunted and huddled himself on the couch, facing its back. In the meantime John put up the kettle for tea, extracted some bread rolls, butter and ham, and started making sandwiches.

"Want a sandwich?" he asked Sherlock out of sheer habit. He heard a muffled "nah" in response, but he made an additional sandwich anyway. He poured boiling water  over the tea bag in his mug, and after a brief moment of hesitation did the same with another mug. There was no reason for him to be angry at Sherlock, after all if it was anyone's fault, it certainly wasn't Sherlock's. He had to behave normally or Sherlock would start to suspect something, and he could hide nothing from that man.

He brought everything into the living room, put the mugs on the coffee table, the plate in his lap and turned on the telly. He zapped through the channels, searching for the morning news, and cleared his throat again, glancing at Sherlock still curled up on the sofa. His feet were moving rhythmically, probably tapping to some symphony or something like that, the buzzing of the telly never disturbing him. There was, as always, something happening in Syria, the US president commenting on that, some guy from Eastern Europe interviewed on the economic crisis, some school starting classes on robotics... Then began some morning show where they invited stars to talk with them about various kinds of stuff: food, hobbies, pets, pregnancy... things that Sherlock would surely call "boring", and which weren't that interesting for John either but he simply liked something buzzing in the background while he had his breakfast.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of fabric, two steps and one of the sandwiches was snatched from the plate. Startled, John spilled tea all over his chest.

"For fuck's sake!" he exclaimed, as the still-hot tea soaked through the fabric. He threw the empty plate onto the table and tugged his pyjamas shirt off. A large pink mark was growing on his chest. " What the hell did you do that for, you  bloody idiot?!" he yelled at Sherlock, who was munching leisurely on the sandwich, sitting on the sofa like a fucking aristocrat.

"You are jumpy,"the detective said, lifting his tea mug. "I wonder why."

John's breathing was certainly quicker than normal. "I am jumpy?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"You've almost burned me!"

"The tea was too cold to burn you."

"But you stole my sandwich!"John didn't want to evoke the shampoo accident from the day before.

"You never eat more than one in the morning, ergo you made it for me. I only took what was already mine. Is there anything wrong? You have been a bit jumpy since yesterday."

"Yeah, and you're the first person to notice things li-"

At that precise moment Sherlock chose to look John straight in the eyes, taking an elegant sip of the tea.

John cursed under his breath and threw himself back into the armchair, looking away and ignoring Sherlock as far as possible, his deep baritone still ringing in his ears. When  had he started to notice the timbre of Sherlock's voice, anyway?

There was some girl talking about those ridiculous munchkin cats on the telly. The cats were looking at him with their flat, chubby faces and indifferent eyes, the girl was looking at him with her huge cleavage, but John's thoughts were elsewhere.

When Sherlock turned away from him again with a soft rustling and creaking noise, and steadied himself into his favourite day-off-work position, John stood up, collected his still wet shirt from the floor and went to his bedroom to get dressed. He needed a walk. Alone. To think.


	3. Chapter 3

London was waking up. John walked briskly towards the park, where he hoped he could find some peace of mind. The morning was chilly, but it was getting warmer as the sun was peeping shyly from behind the clouds. John focused on his breath, synchronized with his steps, passing people walking their dogs and in several cases dogs walking their people, as well as pigeons that were afraid neither of the dogs nor of the people. It would be a beautiful day, especially as John still had much time before he was expected at his mundane job, so he could even walk all the way there instead of taking the Tube. This was a very good plan.

He found himself a nice secluded bench between the lake and a willow tree and sat there, trying to collect his thoughts and put them in some kind of order.

The main problem was why was his mind playing such tricks on him? Certainly, Sherlock was an exciting person, intellectually, but he had never been particularly attracted to the man. He was certainly considered handsome by women and some men, and John had to admit that he was fascinated with Sherlock's mental abilities, demonstrations of which usually made John's mind explode with data overload, and he was curious as to what else might be hidden under that mop of black curly hair. That curiosity might have led to attraction, but not in a sexual kind of way. And yet if he told anyone about his shower fantasy or the dream, they would certainly say that, actually, it was in a very sexual way. It is said that the subconscious reveals itself in dreams. But his subconscious was perfectly heterosexual, he was turned on by boobs and curved hips and full lips and he only watched heterosexual porn. And when he thought of sex, it was always with a woman. He had checked so many times that it was certain that God had made him that way. He liked things to be soft, curved, sensual and sweet, just like women. So it was the only possibility.

"I like women!" John exclaimed, throwing up his hands into the air. A duck almost choked on a quack. A young photographer in tight-fit jeans who was taking photos just a few feet behind John retreated with a disappointed look on his face. All that was lacking was a choir singing hallelujah, and John considered the matter settled as he proceeded to put his plan of walking to work into effect.

He arrived a bit early, greeted everyone at the clinic with the sort of broad smile that a man could only produce after coming to terms with his sexual preferences, grabbed a coffee and sat at his desk. His first patient was some girl with a cold. While checking her heart and lungs, John did something that was totally unprofessional and for a split second allowed himself to see her not as a patient, but as a young, ripe woman.

Definitely, the boobs still turned him on.

He checked the other symptoms, looking for any signs of flu, pneumonia or other potentially dangerous disease, and as he found none, he sent the girl home with a prescription for paracetamol, cough syrup and nose spray. He had a few more patients after her, out of whom he sent one for jaw x-ray (his jaw made a crunching sound every time he opened his mouth), and one for echo (he was a new patient at the clinic and had a history of heart problems). There was also one girl who had just started her period and John had to explain everything to her, even giving her the 'My First Period' promotional set. This only strengthened his belief that he was perfectly straight, as menstruation, uteri, vaginae, labia and all kinds of female stuff didn't freak him out, even in practice.

Well, PMS did freak him out a bit, especially in practice.

On the other hand, penises didn't freak him out either. He was good buddies with his own, and it never disappointed him. And he had seen enough of penises in real life and in different configurations to be sure that even if they didn't freak him out, other men's penises weren't something worth his further notice. They weren't even that pretty.

Actually, neither were vaginae. Someone once said that a vagina before sex looks like a blooming flower, and afterwards like a pit-bull that fell head-first into mayonnaise, and that summed it up pretty much.

His phone beeped.

_What are you doing? I'm bored. - SH_

John smirked at the phone, fighting the urge to tell Sherlock that he was just thinking about human genitalia.

However, he lost the fight, as the thought that maybe it would be amusing to read Sherlock's reaction to his text.  _Just thinking about penises and vaginae, that's all._

_Anyone's in particular? - SH_

That's when it dawned on John that starting a text conversation about penises with Sherlock might have not been such a good idea after all. He slammed the phone  down on the table, trying not to think about what his mind had produced in the shower or in his dream.

But he couldn't help imagining Sherlock saying "anyone's in particular?" in his deep baritone voice, with a little pause after "anyone's". He would probably shift his gaze from whatever was holding his attention in order to look at John, slightly raising an eyebrow...

 _Me and my NEW GIRLFRIEND, thank you very much_ , he replied, again feeling the uneasiness with which he had woken up that morning.

_You said it in plural. Why? - SH_

_Why not?_

_Would you like it? - SH_

_Why would you like to know?_

_I like to know things – SH_

_No, it's only one penis and one vagina._

_OK. - SH_

Jokes aside, John did feel quite drained after this exchange. In the morning, when he was coming to terms with his sexuality, everything had seemed so easy. He had registered no change in his preferences, and here he was, almost discussing sexual fantasies with the same flatmate who had appeared in his dream.

_But you don't have a girlfriend. - SH_

John thought he needed to visit his therapist.


	4. Chapter 4

Luckily, Sherlock didn't pursue the topic any more that day, even though he still wasn't asleep when John came back home at around midnight. John could tell even before entering the flat, as a violin concerto was seeping through the open windows. At least it was an already existing musical piece and not one of those on-the-spot cacophonies that Sherlock was so fond of inventing in moments of boredom.

It wasn't actually that bad. When John entered the flat, Sherlock didn't pay even the tiniest bit of attention to him, focusing instead on his instrument. John took advantage of it and sneaked into his room.

The dream didn't reoccur that night, or the night after that, or for the few days following, and as the alarm clock woke John up every morning, he was pretty sure that the dream had only been a whimsy of his mind, which obviously lacked sexual stimulation. He postponed the visit to his therapist, blaming his uneasiness following the dream for the strange exchange of text messages and his attribution of wrongful intentions.

Because his sexuality was unquestionable. This was his new motto.

Things were getting better with Sarah, who, even if she wasn't John's girlfriend yet, was definitely his girlfriend-to-be, whatever Sherlock thought about it. The events of a few days ago, when Sarah had almost been pierced with a gigantic bolt, were now a laughing matter between them, as both of them had the ideal personalities to just be happy that everyone was safe and sound after all and not to reminisce on hurtful past events.

They talked a lot. About things. They even went out twice more, this time without Sherlock, and it was brilliant, even though John didn't want to spoil the moment by suggesting that they move onto the next step in their relationship.

Sherlock found a case to keep himself busy and John was grateful for that too, as it meant less interaction between them. But as John regained his mental balance once again, it was apparently meant to be ruined.

When he came back one day after a particularly long day at work, he didn't hear violin music. He didn't hear laptop keys clicking. He heard gunshots.

At first his heart froze at the memories from the battle front.

Then it froze once again, thinking that something was happening to Sherlock.

Or Mrs. Hudson.

But when he ran up the stairs, he discovered that the only thing that had happened to Sherlock was that he had obviously lost his fucking mind.

The detective was sprawled on one of the armchairs, shooting at the wall. With. Fucking. Bullets.

"What the HELL are you doing?!"

John wanted to take that fucking gun and shove it up Sherlock's ass. Down his throat. For scaring him.

"Bored,"was the only answer. John was so furious that he almost missed it.

"What?" he asked, ready to put the plan into effect.

"Bored!" Sherlock repeated, springing up from the armchair, and before John could say anything, he started shooting at the wall again, behaving like a spoiled five-year-old. That was why they wanted to have gun control in the US – so that kids like him wouldn't play with them.

John rushed into the room when it seemed that Sherlock was done with the shooting and intercepted the gun, locking it at once.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock muttered, throwing himself onto the couch dramatically. "Good job I'm not one of them."

John hid the gun, feeling his anger subside. At least no one was hurt. "So you take it out on the wall?" he asked, not really expecting a reply.

"The wall had it coming,"was the reply that came.

As the situation was stable and the child wasn't playing with dangerous objects anymore, John took off his coat and asked Sherlock about the Russian case, which turned out to have been Belarusian and apparently wasn't worth Sherlock's time.

The kitchen almost provoked John to give vent to his rising anger again, as the table was so full of Sherlock's lab equipment that there wasn't even a square inch of space to eat on, and in the fridge...

"Oh, fuck."

John felt like crying.

"There's a head. A severed head."

\---

"And he apparently wasn't even bothered by the fact that there was a fucking head in the fridge just next to the food, and you know what he did next? He ranted on about how fucking idiotic my blog is, where, of course, I write about him and his achievements, didn't even care for a split second about what I may think and feel and need, and then we had a talk about what really is important in life, because he doesn't even care whether the Earth goes round the Sun or not, and then he basically called me an idiot in comparison to his fucking genius, because of course he fucking is one, so that's why I'm here." John stopped to take a breath. "Can you imagine he tried to stop me?!"

Sarah was looking at John with glazed-over eyes. "Yeah, and then?" she asked.

John suddenly felt like a deflated balloon. "That's it. That's the whole story," he replied. He reached for the glass standing on the coffee table and took a sip. Sarah had reopened half a bottle of Merlot that she hadn't finished during a girls' night with her best friends. So they were sipping the cold red wine with its unique, heavy, tart taste to it, perfectly corresponding to John's bitter mood right then.

"I don't know if you've noticed,"Sarah said, leaning back on the sofa, "but you're really worked up over all this."

"He said so already! Of course I'm worked up, I live with that jerk, don't wanna get shot again!"

"I think there's more to it than just that,"Sarah said, looking away and taking a sip from her own glass.

"What do you mean?"John looked at Sarah, perplexed, but he could read nothing in her weary expression. She was silent for a moment and then replied:

"If it was only that you don't want to get shot, you would just strangle him right there and then. Or at least restrain him. You can do that, right?"

"But he's a bloody genius, I would be dead if I tried to strangle him!"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I mean that you care about him and your relationship with him."

"We don't have any bloody relationship!"

"I didn't mean that in romantic sense, necessarily,"Sarah looked him in the eye. John swallowed. The tart aftertaste was still there. "Just take what I said into consideration, okay? Because if you don't do anything about it, it will only get worse. And now I'm sorry to have to excuse myself, but I'm terribly tired and wanna go to sleep,"Sarah stood up and took the empty wine bottle and her glass to the kitchen. John finished his wine and followed her.

Sarah's kitchen was a bit of a mess, but it was at least homely, so very different from what John had become used to while living with Sherlock.

Their hands touched as they were putting their glasses in the sink. John felt a jolt in his stomach at the touch. He grasped Sarah's hand gently and when she turned to face him, he gently cupped her cheek and leaned in to kiss her. She pressed her warm body against his at first, but when the kiss started to get passionate, she pushed at his chest with her hands.

John felt strange.

"Is someone trying to make me rethink my decision to make you sleep on the couch?" she asked with a playful smile. John grinned at her and made a second attempt at a kiss. "There's no way, doctor." Sarah put her hand on John's mouth. "Don't. Seriously. Think about what I told you."

Then she left John in the kitchen. He looked out of the window, still with the strange feeling in his gut. Had he said anything wrong? He bet that Sarah would have told him if he had. Maybe she was just tired, as she had said.

John went over to the couch and slumped onto it. There was a pillow and a blanket left for him, so he made himself comfortable.

Before he fell asleep, he had the random thought that somehow the kiss with Sarah had felt as if he were cheating on Sherlock. But then he drifted off and forgot about the thought.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning John felt a lot better, despite being slightly ashamed at what he might have said last night and a little bit thirsty after the Merlot. Sarah behaved as if nothing had happened and even said that maybe she could let John sleep at the end of her bed next time, which was an obvious signal that she didn't mind John's presence at all. And maybe even liked him.

She retrieved the remote control from between the pillows on the couch and turned on the TV. She looked gorgeous in her light purple dressing gown and she even suggested that John might like some breakfast, which made his face light up with the prospect of a good meal with Sarah as company.

"Well, you'd better make it yourself because I'm going to take a shower,"she said teasingly.

John thought that actually he could use a shower too, but it would have to wait, as now Sarah was there and he had no spare cloth-

His thought was interrupted by the image shown on the TV screen. It was a piece of news about an explosion in central London, and on the screen was nothing less than Baker Street and his house.

Sherlock.

And Mrs. Hudson.

Sick with worry, he sprang up, announced that he had to run, caught a cab and was in Baker Street in what seemed to be no time at all. There were a great many people standing there, watching the emergency services at work and looking at the damaged building, thankfully not 221B, but a property on the other side of the road. John made his way through the small crowd.

A giant hole was gaping in the building opposite 221B. The police and fire brigade were all around and busy, and John was dashing between them in a haze, with only one objective on his mind – find Sherlock and make sure that he was safe and sound.

And Mrs. Hudson, of course.

He rushed into the house, barely noticing the shards of glass which even littered the stairs, saying much about the impact of the explosion.

"Sherlock!" he tried.

And there he was, fiddling with his violin.

The bastard. Whom he wanted to hug just for being alive.

There was also Mycroft.

"I saw it on the telly, are you okay?" John asked, just to make sure, though he could see that Sherlock was alright. But what the hell was Mycroft doing there?

The windows were covered with paper. The explosion must have smashed them out.

"Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine," Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. "Gas leak, apparently."

And then the Holmes brothers returned to some conversation they were having previously, about something that Sherlock couldn't do and that Mycroft wanted him to do. John inspected what was left of the windows, hoping that they weren't including his person in the discussion.

"Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

He pretended not to have heard.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

It seemed that Sherlock had lost interest in what Mycroft was saying, as he too started asking John questions about Sarah and his night at her place.

Somehow he knew that he had at first been meant to sleep on the lilo, but Mycroft corrected him, saying that he had actually used the sofa. It was the sofa, and John didn't want to know how they knew. It was just creepy that they didn't bother to ignore these facts when they somehow discovered them, and that they didn't hesitate to tell him that they knew. It seemed as if they took pleasure in the act. Was it to humiliate him? No, it was probably just a case of showing-off between the two.

Then Mycroft made an attempt at a small talk. "Sherlock's business has been booming since he and you became... pals." John didn't like the small pause before the last word. "What's he like to live with?" All with that awful smile of his. "Hellish, I imagine."

John could see the change in Sherlock's eyes. Whatever he said or believed, it must be hard to hear one's own brother comment on him like that. Even for a sociopath.

"I'm never bored", the doctor replied, which was, of course, the truth. Yes, he had been angry at Sherlock the day before, but now he was just happy that he was safe, and he couldn't bring himself to say something bad about his partner in front of this man whose morals he doubted.

"Good! That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft assumed the tone of a primary school teacher, fiddling with his umbrella all the time. John felt something like anger, he could feel the familiar heat creeping up his neck. But it was also fear. His therapist always told him that anger is born out of fear and the inability to do something about it. What did he fear?

Mycroft seemed like a person who could crush him with a mere flick of his umbrella . It was a disgusting thought. But he had seen things in his life; he held Mycroft's gaze until the latter lowered his eyes and decided that it was high time he went.

Just then John remembered what Sarah had said the day before. That he cared for Sherlock and that this care was why it hurt when someone said bad things about the detective. Mycroft must have sensed it too. But there was only friendship between them, nothing more, and John was also angry at Mycroft for suggesting that there may be more to it while John was trying so hard to behave like a friend should. At the same time, he feared that the older Holmes  could use his fantastic ideas against Sherlock or him.

Mycroft handed Sherlock a bunch of papers, but as he refused to take them, he gave them to John and went on to summarize the case of Andrew West who had apparently jumped in front of a train after stealing a particularly precious memory stick containing some information crucial to the UK government.

\----------------------

After laying out the case to John (and Sherlock, who wasn't in fact listening), Mycroft shook John's hand and left, saying "See you very soon." It sounded menacing and John felt even more uneasy as Sherlock started playing short, rapid notes on his violin that were probably part of some popular melody: it rang a bell with John. If Sherlock were normal and a teenager, he would probably mutter abuse under his breath, but this was Sherlock and he was posh and, at least physically, adult.

When the door closed after Mycroft, John turned towards Sherlock, who was still fiddling with his violin. Sherlock didn't return the look. His face was unreadable.

John sat down and although he felt relieved that Mycroft had left, the pressure didn't fade. Sherlock was behaving like a spoiled five-year-old again – wouldn't take the case because it was his brother who hadbrought it to him. John suddenly felt quite tired again, but he thought he should say something.

"Why did you lie?" he asked. Sherlock finally looked at him, puzzled. "You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

John felt a bit as if he was speaking to an ill-behaved child, even more so when Sherlock replied, "Why shouldn't I?" rubbing the bow against his neck in a very nonchalant way.

"Oh, nice," John said. He felt the anger from yesterday morning rise inside him once again, and now he felt betrayed because he was worried about Sherlock and he wanted to protect the bastard from his own brother, and said bastard couldn't even be bothered to say thank you. "Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

He couldn't tell whether Sherlock felt even the tiniest bit of guilt (he probably didn't), because at that very moment Sherlock's phone rang, he answered and when John saw his eyes light up, he knew he would do nothing more about it.

It was Lestrade. Sherlock accepted the case in a few words and asked John if he was coming, as if John hadn't wanted to kill him just a moment ago, and John agreed before he even thought about it. And when he stood up, he knew that there was no way back.

"If you want me to," he said.

"Of course", Sherlock replied, taking his coat from the rack. "I'd be lost without my blogger," he added with a slight smile, and John took it as an apology.

As they were going down the stairs, John couldn't help grinning. He felt a bit light-headed after this quick succession of different emotions, and he had only got up just two hours ago.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, I'm just glad you're okay", John replied.

"I'm glad you came back," Sherlock said, turning to meet his eyes. John paused in mid-step. He backed off a bit, then took a step towards Sherlock.

"Did I hear 'sorry for shooting at the wall and behaving like a dickhead towards you, John'?" John mocked, walking on and passing Sherlock.

Before John could mock him any more, the words came.

"I'm sorry. That was not good."

John stood there with his mouth open. He had just made Sherlock Holmes apologize; that simply didn't happen. John could only see his elegant profile, as Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the stairs, but he didn't care anymore whether his expression was just one of his convincing acts or genuine remorse. He felt special and there was a warm feeling in his gut.

"I'm not angry anymore," he croaked when his voice came back. "I forgave you the minute I left. That's what friends do, right?"

"M-m. Friends," Sherlock repeated in a low voice, send John a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and turned to leave the house with John, who had just opened the door. "Come on, John, there is no time to lose!" he said, taking a step outside, the Sherlock from just a moment ago banished from both his tone and expression. If John hadn't known better, he would have said it was a hallucination.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

What was that part about friends again? When the multiple shocks had worn off (John was definitely too old for such levels of psychological stimuli in such a short period of time), John found himselfreplaying the part about friends over and over again in his head. Sherlock didn't say anything while they were in the cab, and as soon as they got to the Yard, he busied himself with the new case and John didn't dare ask.

Why did Sherlock say that word in such a weird way? It was not at all like him to leave such double-entendres for John to stumble upon in his mind.

Maybe he didn't consider John his friend? After all, the guy had arch-enemies, so maybe he also had not-quite-friends?

They worked together normally, although John's mind was occupied with another case he wanted to solve. But when Sherlock opened an envelope with just a few graceful moves of his gloved hands, John couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight. He told himself that these leather gloves were the poshest thing ever, but it made him warm just thinking of how they would feel against his skin.

What Sherlock pulled from the envelope was a phone seemingly identical to the one he had found in the Study in Pink. After yesterday's quarrel about his blog, John wished very dearly that no one would comment on it, but, as always, someone had to, and it was Lestrade who mentioned the  fact that Sherlock didn't know that the Earth went round the Sun. John cast him a look that was meant to be menacing, but luckily Sherlock didn't pursue the topic further, concentrating on his work.

John decided that he had better concentrate on it too, if he were to be of any help, and he would ask Sherlock what he had meant when they were finally alone. He would ask whether he meant that John was his friend, or his enemy, or more than friend. On second thoughts, John crossed out the last idea. Even if Sherlock classified John as more than friend, John didn't reciprocate. He considered Sherlock a friend: that was why he cared about him.

\----------------------------

The first opportunity to ask was at Bart's, where Sherlock was examining the shoes they had found in their basement.

John started with some small talk about the case: who the girl might be and how were they supposed to save her; but Sherlock was so focused on examining a sample under the microscope that he answered with only half of his attention. That was the only explanation for him saying what he said.

"You're not going to be of much use to her,"Sherlock muttered, as if the girl was a piece of meat and not still a living person.

"Are they tracing it? Tracing the call?" John asked, supposing that maybe Sherlock had misheard him or that he attributed wrong intentions to him. He was simply worried about a young woman who might be dead soon because they were nowhere near solving the mystery, and what Sherlock said made him think for a moment that he considered it fun. And it was deadly serious. True, he cared about her, because she was going to die, for fuck's sake! If it was Sherlock who was dying, he would care too!

"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock replied and his phone beeped at the same moment. "Pass me my phone," he added.

John looked around, searching for the phone. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Jacket," came the reply. It took John a while to process the word. The jacket was obviously being worn by Sherlock at the moment, and John took a deep breath, wanting to tell the bastard that he'd better take the phone out himself and then shove it up his arse.

Or maybe not.

John approached him, shoved his hand into the detective's jacket's pocket, earning an angry "Careful!" from him, and took way too long to retrieve the phone. It was as if the bastard put it that deep on purpose. He wanted to do it quickly, as he was standing so close that he could smell the damned expensive gay shampoo. He took a step back and looked at the screen.

"Text from your brother,"he said, seeing "Mycroft" written in the message bar.

"Delete it," Sherlock commanded.

"Delete it?” John repeated. Was this another round of sibling rivalry?

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it," Sherlock muttered, but John read the text anyway. Apparently Mycroft thought otherwise as he had texted Sherlock eight times already, asking about Westie's death, so it must have been important. He informed Sherlock of his doubts, and it finally tore Sherlock's attention away from the sample he was examining. "Then why did he cancel his dentist appointment? Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains, end of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try to remember there's a woman who might die," John replied, wanting to have the last word in just this one argument. Were there really no feelings in Sherlock Holmes? John was sure that if Sherlock's life was threatened, he would be crazy with anxiety.

"What for? There's hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry at their bedside and see what good it does them?"

He was doing that again. Trying to humilate him, looking him straight in the eye. Sherlock and Mycroft had something in common, after all. John averted his gaze. He wanted to ask 'would you say the same if it was me?' but before he could get the words out, the computer beeped and Sherlock gave out a little cry of excitement.

And that was when Molly stormed into the room, and John realised that he had just spent probably the only time he would get alone with Sherlock for at least several hours,  quarrelling with him and trying to communicate his worries about a stranger, instead of asking what he had been planning to.

But it was true, he was worried about a total stranger. And he worried about Sherlock too, when something bad was happening. So the feelings were more or less the same; he knew Sherlock better, so of course he cared more. So maybe Sarah had been wrong; maybe it wasn't that he cared particularly for Sherlock, but that he cared for people in general? After all, he was a doctor and doctors should care for people...

Molly was followed by a guy who was obviously wearing a T-shirt that was a size or two too small for him, and she presented him as Jim from IT, her new boyfriend. As always, she forgot John's name, which he gladly provided, still blaming himself a bit for losing so much time, quarrelling with the detective.

Sherlock lost interest in Jim after a brief look, but Jim was apparently very excited about Sherlock. His voice was strange and he was making uneasy gestures with his hands, and talking all the time, and John could almost see Sherlock's annoyance gauge filling up as he listened to the guy with one ear.

"Gay," Sherlock stated, casting a glance at Jim.

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked, the wide smile fading from her face.

"Nothing, um, hey," Sherlock corrected himself, which was clearly a sign of social inclusion  from the sociopath – he didn't want to hurt Molly's feelings in front of this guy. Jim smiled at him and leaned against the table, knocking off a metal tray. He apologized at once with a nervous laugh, but John knew that Sherlock's annoyance gauge had just reached the red zone. He didn't want to watch what happened next. Luckily, Jim didn't linger there any longer, but left promptly, having agreed with Molly about their date later that night.

"It was nice to meet you," Jim said before he left. Sherlock of course didn't reply, but the guy wouldn't leave without it, so John said: "You too."

"What do you mean, gay? We're together," Molly asked when the door had closed behind Jim. That was how you asked people things. That's what John should have done earlier this afternoon: asked Sherlock what he meant by this "friends" thing straight away and not rely on small talk which caused Sherlock to belittle John's feelings.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," Sherlock replied in his deep voice, "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

John saw Molly's chin twitch and he decided to act since Sherlock had not only just called her boyfriend a homosexual, which of course he would prove in a second, but had, moreover, told her she had got fat! That was certainly not something you should tell a girl, even if her boyfriend had just made you hit the ceiling with his gayness. Today was apparently Sherlock's male PMS day.

"Two and a half." Molly made an attempt at regaining her self-esteem.

"No, three."

"Sherlock," John tried. Sherlock was apparently intent on making someone cry that day, and as he hadn't succeeded with John, he had turned to attack Molly.

"He's not gay," Molly exclaimed, her voice already almost a sob. "Why do you have to spoil...? He's not!"

John thought for a moment that Molly would hit Sherlock on the head with the heavy microscope.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock asked. Molly was panting, at a loss for words.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!" John said to give Molly a moment to regain her balance, and immediately regretted it as he thought of the bloody shampoo.

"You wash your hair, there's a difference," Sherlock replied at once with a smirk. "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes, then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked, an expression of disgust clear on her face.

"Visible above the waistline, very visible. Very particular brand."

John almost burst out laughing at the thought that Sherlock paid attention to other men's underwear, but first of all, that was part of his job, and second, he didn't want to trigger a similar deduction about himself.

"Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish. I'd say you'd better break it off and save yourself the pain."

Molly stormed out of the room, furious. Sherlock looked after her, not astonished at all.

"Charming, well done!" John commented, hoping that this situation would have taught Sherlock something.

"Just saving her time, isn't that kinder?" Sherlock asked, turning towards John with a genuinely perplexed frown.

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, that wasn't kind," John told him, just as he would tell a child or a puppy.

As a kind of topic change, Sherlock presented him with one of the shoes that they had collected from the basement. "Go on then,"he said. As John hadn't caught what he was supposed to do, he clarified, "You know what I do, off you go."

John pointed at the shoe, questioningly, and said "No.” It was his turn to voice his refusal. If Sherlock wanted to behave like a spoiled brat, he would treat him as one.

"Go on," Sherlock wasn't giving up.

John finally said one of the things he wanted to say. "I'm not going to stand here while you humiliate me while I try and disseminate-"

"An outside eye, a second opinion,"Sherlock insisted. And John had been so proud that he had managed to express his feelings in such a clear manner. But there was no way out of it. At least Sherlock wanted to do something together, which was a sign that he probably didn't consider him an enemy. He looked Sherlock in the eye for a long while and he didn't see any desire to humiliate him. It wasn't an apologetic look, but it wasn't menacing either.

And so he lost another chance of confronting Sherlock on the topic of his strange behaviour. And besides, Sherlock was totally concentrated on the case, so it might not have been such a good idea at that moment. John postponed the confrontation until the next opportunity.


	7. Chapter 7

The case was so engaging that John soon forgot all that he had wanted to ask or say, and when Sherlock cunningly sent him to Mycroft to deal with the portion of the case that was apparently too boring for him, John decided that he would postpone his questions further and instead take care of Westie's case himself. And he desperately needed something to do in order not to think too much about his doubts.

John was intent on not annoying Sherlock, so that they could get through the case as quickly as possible, save several human lives and probably save himself from being yelled at by the detective. The fact that he was actually a bit afraid of Mycroft made that even a greater challenge, but after the encounters he had already had with the man, he had concluded that the best strategy was to be polite towards him and keep his distance, just to be safe. And he did just that – he was overwhelmingly polite and gathered all the information he needed without making Mycroft suspicious. What he said had really moved it forwards and John felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he went out of the office and hurried home to inform Sherlock of his findings.

In the meantime, Sherlock had discovered poison in Carl's shoes (brilliant, as always, John thought) and posted it on his blog, which stopped the clock and allowed the police to save the poor girl.

That was when John finally exhaled with relief and his mind surged back to his original problem, taking an entirely new perspective. It was true that he had succeeded in taking his mind off trying to find the perfect moment to ask Sherlock what he meant, at least for a few hours; but now the question struck him: why did he want to ask it at all? Why did he care about it?

The adrenaline was still rushing through his veins and he knew he wouldn't fall asleep anyway thanks to the questions swirling in his head, so he made himself some tea, sat in his armchair and turned on the telly. There were some late-night shows featuring porn on several channels, commercials on the others and already outdated news on the rest. He turned the telly off, not wanting to watch any of them. Sherlock was lying on the couch on his back, clearly very much awake, as he was fidgeting constantly. John thought that must be why the man was so skinny – he fidgeted so much that he burned a lot more calories than an average human being. John smiled at that and moved to gather his laptop and maybe write a post or two on his blog.

Of course Sherlock had been using his laptop when John was away at Mycroft's office. The web browser was open with several tabs, among them John's e-mail account. Sherlock had been reading John's un-sent e-mails to Sarah again, and, as John noticed, even correcting them, pointing out the incorrectly used idioms in the comment section. How had he managed to squeeze that mundane activity in between working out the case? John didn't want to know.  He didn't really want to be forced to conclude that the guy was a robot.

In the afterglow of all that adrenaline, John could only smile at the screen and close the tabs. However, there was one more tab open that caught his attention, entitled "Am I gay?"

It was nothing serious, just  a page of advice directed towards people unsure of their sexual orientation. But John was startled nevertheless. He had been unsure about his own orientation a few days ago, but he couldn't have left the tab open as he  had not browsed any such sites... so it must have been Sherlock, probably leaving it open by accident, but on the other hand, accidents simply didn't happen to that man...

It suddenly dawned upon John that maybe Sherlock had somehow deduced his recent doubts about his sexuality and now couldn't find any other way to deal with the topic. After all, they had this conversation a long time ago, at Angelo's... when Sherlock had definitely thought that John was suggesting that they start going out together, which of course he  wasn't, but nevertheless...

"Um, Sherlock," he started, earning a half-lidded glance from the detective. "I think you might have been using my laptop."

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, tapping a rhythm on the armrest with his toes, his face a mask of calmness with just a tiny smile playing on the corners of his lips after a case solved.

"There is a tab open, about, you know, working out if you're homosexual."

Sherlock's expression didn't change at all and he didn't reply.

"There'a a website on gay people open,"John rephrased.

"I know," Sherlock spat. "If you need an explanation, I was researching the topic and I didn't close it, that's why it's open."

"Well, I'd figured out that much," John said, skimming through the website and stopping for a second on the part that elaborated upon  how you might break it to your friends that you might be gay. It was slightly unusual for Sherlock to research anything that was not scientific. "Why were you researching that topic?"

"I thought it might be useful," Sherlock replied, shrugging as much as his position on the couch allowed for. John knew that tone; Sherlock had used it earlier, with Mycroft. He was playing a game again.

"When?"

"I don't know, during cases, or something. Do you want some whisky?"

The change of topic surprised John and for a moment he was staring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open, until he croaked, "Yeah, sure."

"You can pour one for me too, thanks."

That was typical. John sighed, took the whisky bottle from the shelf and poured two glasses. Only when he gave one of them to Sherlock did the detective sit up, inhaling the scent of the drink. John downed his own in one go, and caught a glimpse of Sherlock admiring the dark,  peaty fragrance with his eyes closed. Soon, the whisky kicked in and John relaxed. Sherlock was taking tiny, elegant sips from the glass, his lips pressing softly against the brim, and his Adam's apple moving with each swallow. He was sitting on the sofa with his arm casually thrown over the backrest and his long legs crossed.

"Are you aware of the fact that you are staring at me?" Sherlock asked suddenly, placing the glass on the coffee table. "Makes me feel a little uncomfortable, bearing in mind what you were just looking at."

John shuddered and focused back on reality. Had he just been thinking about Sherlock's looks? He must be really tired.

"Well, actually, there was one thing that I wanted to ask you," he said, and finding out that it still sounded very gay, he added "but it has nothing to do with the site."

Sherlock looked at him. John tried to collect his thoughts. What he was planning to say was that when Mycroft had come to their place and given them Westie's case to solve, and when afterwards they were going out of the house, Sherlock had thanked John for coming back, and when John had said that was what friends do, Sherlock had repeated the word "friends" with  that strange look on his face.

But it sounded very silly. So silly, in fact, that John abandoned that plan. It was hard to abandon it after so many hours spent thinking about it, but it was the only thing to do. He decided not to tackle it now, because now he was tired and maybe he was jumping to the wrong conclusions. He downed the second glass of whiskey and stood up.

"You still haven't asked me the question," Sherlock muttered, leaning his head back against the backrest.

John yawned. Although he wasn't telling Sherlock what he had intended to say, he had to say something. "It's less of a question than of a remark, and I just wanted to say that I really think you're brilliant, with what you did with these shoes and how you connected all that and everything."

Sherlock smiled and it made John think of a very satisfied cat. It was pleasant to look at; he wanted to make him do that again.

"You're staring again," Sherlock said.

"I like to see you smile," John blurted out before he could stop himself. Then felt  suddenly ready to die.

"It's still weird in the context of the site," Sherlock sneered again.

"Did you leave that site open just to have another go at humiliating me? I just wanted to say that you always frown or look bored and I really like to see a different expression from time to time, because you're really brilliant."

"Okay, I'm going to remember that the next time I confirm my genius," Sherlock finished his whiskey and resumed his horizontal position on the couch. "Good night, John," he said before assuming the thinking position. John shook his head and went upstairs.


	8. Chapter 8

When John woke up, at first he basked in the feeling of finally having had a full five hours of undisturbed sleep. He had been going for too long without such a luxury; he had learned to appreciate these moments back in the army, when getting a decent amount of sleep was rare, yet concentration and physical awareness were crucial. So when his body could rest without awakening for several hours, it regenerated in full measure, and that was precisely how John felt – regenerated.

But then the memories of the previous evening came rushing back to his brain and he suddenly felt a lot more awake. Had he just dreamt of having that conversation with Sherlock? He remembered that he was too sleepy to think coherently and that then everything had been a bit blurry already; had they really had that conversation? Had the image of Sherlock indulging in the scent of whisky been just another whim of his imagination, or had it been real?

He inhaled and exhaled, trying to collect his thoughts.

It had been real and he had been so tired that he hadn't really cared at the time. But he did care now, he cared a great bloody deal. He knew this feeling. It was more or less the same feeling as waking up after a night of heavy drinking with a person whom he didn't really recall meeting by his side. Only, the person whom he didn't recall was himself from the day before. Somehow, he felt guilty. He knew that logically there was no reason for him to feel guilty or ashamed, and yet he did. Even though he hadn't done anything wrong; it was Sherlock who had, yet again, been trying to humiliate him...

Or maybe it had been the whisky. After all, he hadn't had anything to eat in what seemed like forever, and he could really use some scrambled eggs now...

He dragged himself downstairs, only to find Sherlock already dressed and ready to go.

"Lestrade's just called, wants us at the Yard," he said, throwing John a ready-made sandwich in a paper bag.

"Can I dress up or is it really urgent?" John asked. He found himself astonished at Sherlock's thoughtfulness in getting him something to eat even though he himself was eating nothing, but a bit annoyed at the fact that he hadn't woken him up when Lestrade called so that he could at least take his time washing. As it was, he just ran upstairs, dressed in the first things he found in the wardrobe  and rushed downstairs to at least brush his teeth. He knew that the case wasn't finished, and that it was only the beginning of their adventure, but the evening before had put him so off-track that he had to mentally slap himself back into co-operation mode.

He munched on the sandwich in the cab, his mind still occupied with the events of the previous night, and as he summed them up, they didn't seem that disturbing: they had saved a human life, after all; or rather, Sherlock had. But John had also had his five minutes of glory at Mycroft's, as he had managed to get vital information out of the man. For a moment, he had somehow overcome his fear of Sherlock's brother, but that had tired him so much that in the end, he could have again attributed wrong intentions to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock really had been consulting the website for some case, but John had simply assumed that it was about his recent doubts.  After all, they must have been virtually undetectable for Sherlock: he wasn't gay, so there could have been no signal.

Or could there? John remembered how Sherlock had caught him staring twice yesterday, and it was the only time that the detective had actually said that he had caught him. There might have been plenty of times when John wasn't aware he had been staring, but Sherlock was. However, Sherlock was so fond of the attention of others that John could perfectly understand why he wouldn't want to spoil the moment of undisturbed admiration.

"John," Sherlock's voice reached his mind through the heavy cloud of swirling thoughts. He came back to the present moment just in time to notice that the cab had stopped in front of the Yard.

  
  


***

  
  


The case was getting more and more complicated, and John was getting more and more depressed at the mastermind's cruelty. How heartless must one be in order to dress innocent people in enough explosives to blow up a house and make them read messages into a phone? That was sick. John had seen people being cruel to each other on the war front, but they were usually fighting for their lives, and here it was pure torture.

To make matters worse, to Sherlock, it was "elegant". John wanted to yell in his face that it wasn't elegant, that it was twisted, but apparently the detective liked the fact that the whole thing was directed at him. He had the attention of the killer. John had never seen Sherlock so excited in his life, but  this wasn't something one should get excited about...

With such a monologue running in his head, John followed Sherlock everywhere when the next part of the case started with four pips and a photo of a car. It was abandoned at derelict building site, and of course John had no clue what was going on, but Sherlock did. John didn't really have any other choice than to follow from the Yard to the site, in the meantime earning some bitter remarks from Donovan and trying to be of as much help as possible, just wanting to finish the case quickly, and end Sherlock's sick excitement.

He told himself that he couldn't stand Sherlock being so excited over something that was so cruel and twisted. But somewhere deep in his soul was the realization that, in fact, he missed having Sherlock all to himself, being able to talk with him about things other than cases... Of course, the adrenaline rush that he experienced during a case was something that couldn't be replaced, but John already had a different stimulus for that, with all the scenarios that had been appearing in his head.

And he didn't like it at all.

He first noticed it when they were riding in a police car to the site where Lestrade stated the car was. There were three of them packed in the rear seat of the car, and John was squeezed between Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock's body was warm and that heat made John relax. As Lestrade was babbling about what he had learned about the car from his people, John felt drawn to the faint scent of Sherlock's (goddamned) shampoo. The scent made him turn his head to inhale even more of it, and at the same time Sherlock turned to say something to him, and suddenly their faces were much too close, their noses almost touching.

They were this much close for a second too long. And in this second, John's eyes studied Sherlock's eyebrows drawn up in surprise, his lips that were parted as he had opened his mouth to speak, and then they both turned again to look in the other direction. John bit his lip nervously, feeling his heart beat like crazy and a blush crawl up his neck, and he saw Sherlock take off his scarf, clearing his throat. Was it only to expose that goddamned long, gorgeous neck?

Was Sherlock that long and lean everywhere?

If John's mind hadn't already been freaking out with what had just happened, that single extra thought sent a jolt straight to his nether regions. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, but with every breath he was indulging more and more in the scent of the shampoo, with a slight touch of cigarette smoke (he would have to talk to Sherlock about that, but later)...

It was intoxicating. John knew he shouldn't like it. The man was a freak, just as Donovan had said. John followed him only because he liked the mystery, and he admired the way he solved the creepy puzzles, saving people and all that, but this one case was just twisted and he would feel so happy and relieved when it ended.


	9. Chapter 9

No, John followed him because he liked him. That was what he came up with when he saw the sun rise the following morning.

The man wasn't a freak. It was just how he was. He got excited about murders and other creepy things, but he was a good man. He did things that were bad or illegal, and he was a pain in the arse to be in the same room with, but somewhere in his heart there was goodness. John wouldn't follow him around if there weren't any.

And John had to admit that he himself got excited by creepy murders too, so if Sherlock was a freak, then he was too.

John also got restless when bored, although he somehow restrained himself from things that were not acceptable to society. He had also seen things in his life that he would rather like to forget, and he knew that these experiences were what made him a good doctor, aware of the ways life can go, even if they had scarred him mentally. He knew that Sherlock needed him in his work because of that, even though he didn't seem to be grateful at all. And John needed him because they were so much alike.

There was a connection between them. Since their first meeting, he could feel that Sherlock was someone who would understand John completely, unlike the rest of the world.

And that was it.

And besides, he really liked the way Sherlock had smiled after having succeeded in solving the puzzle with the guy in Piccadilly Circus. And he appreciated that when the excitement had subsided a bit between parts of the case, Sherlock agreed to accompany him to lunch at Speedy's. And was nice to John throughout this time.

Sherlock was staring at John as he ate. The food wasn't that good, but it was acceptable, and it gave John the boost of nutrients that he desperately needed after running all day and all night on a sandwich that wasn't even that big.

After John was done with devouring as much of the chicken stew as he could to satisfy his hunger, and was simply filling his stomach up with what remained, he decided to ask Sherlock a question that had been in his mind since the morning with Lestrade.

"Has it occurred to you-"

"Probably," Sherlock interrupted.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied with a small smile and John could see that his eyes lit up when he said that. As he expected, all that attention was flattering Sherlock.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?" John asked. They hadn't had a moment to talk about it before, and John had constructed his own theories on the case. Of course he hadn't been thinking only about Sherlock and their recent complications.

"Perhaps," the detective replied just as the phone beeped. There were three pips this time and a photo of Connie Prince, whom John recognized from the TV, and he felt very proud that he knew more than Sherlock again. Sometimes a knowledge of popular culture was necessary, and he couldn't miss the curiosity with which Sherlock observed him when he went to turn on the TV in the bar. The Connie Prince show was, luckily, on at the time.

Then the pink phone rang and they were on a case again.

  
  


***

  
  


This time they didn't succeed. The old, blind lady who had been the victim had started describing the mastermind's voice... and he had just blown her up, along with twelve other people living in the same block of flats.

That was sick as hell. How many more people had to die for the sake of the bloody game?

Next morning, the explosion was all over the news. The news reporter's cold voice recalling the events was one thing, but then it turned out that Sherlock really did regard the events as a matter between the bomber and himself, and not as an issue that concerned real human beings who had their lives and families and friends. All the people who died, or (most probably) got PTSD or something as a consequence of the events, seemed to be simply pawns in their game of genuises.

And that, John Watson could not stand. Someone was playing a game out of some sick kind of boredom, and Sherlock was playing along as if he didn't have any morals. And John knew he did. He had thought about it just the previous morning.

But apparently, it was a huge misunderstanding between his heart and his reason, especially as Sherlock said that caring about the people who could die at any moment wouldn't help them, which of course was true, but it was simply heartless to say  it out loud. Moreover, he said he found it easy, this whole not-caring. He said that he was not a hero, and heroes didn't exist anyway. He basically said that he was above all this shit that was happening, simply by refusing to care. John couldn't believe Sherlock was that cold.

He wanted to ask what Sherlock would do if it was him who was on the other end of the phone, reading out the text while being aimed at by snipers who would blow him up into tiny pieces. Would he not care? John had thought that he did mean something to Sherlock, but what if he had been mistaken? If he was blown to pieces, just as he had already imagined several times, would Sherlock suggest that it was just a nasty side-effect of the whole game? Would Sherlock just shrug and dismiss it?

John felt like crying when the phone rang again. This time it was a photo of the Thames, but it didn't matter. He wanted just to punch Sherlock in the face instead of helping him. He knew his face was hot with anger, and his jaw was clenched tight. He was shaking a little bit, his hands gripping the backrest of the armchair tightly.

"You check the papers; I'll look online," Sherlock said. He expected John's help, but he was so not getting it. When John didn't move, Sherlock added in patronizing  tones, "Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help."

John wasn't angry; he was disappointed. Yes, John was disappointed, because he had thought there was some higher motive behind Sherlock's actions. But there was none, it was only his ego that he cared about. Sick bastard. Twisted, cruel bastard.

"Not much cop, this caring lark," Sherlock said. John felt like punching him, but he knew that if he went to his room and locked the door, Sherlock would either come knocking at it and possibly take it off its hinges, or go and solve the case without John, and John would be even more miserable, left behind like that.

He decided he would confront Sherlock later, when the case was solved; he would ask whether Sherlock would care if it was him who had been in the victim's shoes. Oh yes, he would ask him, and Sherlock would have no way of dodging it.

So John sat down again and checked out the papers lying on the coffee table. He should have known better than to get all worked up because Sherlock showed symptoms of being a sociopath yet again; he had told John himself that it he was diagnosed with that, and while it had sounded a bit like a comfortable excuse for being a twat, it certainly wasn't the first time Sherlock had made John furious. John had already decided that the quicker it was over, the better it would be for both of them. He unclenched his teeth with some effort.

He should have run out of the house.

He should have punched him in the face.

He should have yelled at him.

He should have moved out.

But he hadn't, and he still wasn't sure why.


	10. Chapter 10

Despite their morning quarrel still not having been resolved, Sherlock didn't humiliate John further that day. He didn't, in fact, even talk to him too much. It bothered John beyond measure, and when Sherlock made John go alone to the gallery attendant's place, John was grateful for the opportunity to spend some time away from Sherlock. At the same time, he was glad that he could do something by himself to help solve the case, yet he was still disturbed by the thoughts that had been haunting him since the morning. The thoughts that Sherlock was not only a sick bastard, but might also be dangerous.

  
  


John needed time to think about all of it again. It wouldn't bother him that much if he had been reacting normally to Sherlock's presence; if his senses hadn't been on alert every time that he touched him, by accident or not; if his heart hadn't been beating faster at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice when he was thinking aloud; if he hadn't started to miss Sherlock when they had only been apart for a few hours; and if he hadn't missed the good old days when everything had been normal and there hadn't been a creepy case to solve...

  
  


But he did need some time alone, so he was grateful for Mycroft's text reminding him of Westie's case. After visiting the gallery attendant's place, he started solving Westie's issue by himself. He went to the house Andrew West had lived in with his girlfriend, who was severely depressed and crying all the time. After John had talked to her, he was confronted with her brother, Joe, and gathered what he thought was a bunch of good information, but when he met Sherlock in the evening, the detective scolded him anyway for not finding out anything of use.

  
  


John wasn't angry anymore. He had noticed it subsiding throughout the day, and he felt that everything was more or less back to normal. At least Sherlock talked to him in the normal way and there was no tension, no new unspoken words between them. He recalled how Sherlock had connected the gallery attendant's death to the fake painting, and it didn't cease to astonish him yet again how brilliant the man was. It was all right again.

  
  


Sherlock used his homeless network to find out that they should go to Vauxhall Arches. John couldn't really follow his train of thought, but he knew that he was probably right about that. When they were walking between the concrete columns, Sherlock said something that almost made John trip over his own feet.

  
  


"Beautiful, isn't it?"

  
  


John smirked. The stars were indeed beautiful, and it was one of the rare places in London where you could see them, because the arches blocked most of the lamplight. It would be romantic if it wasn't a meeting place for the homeless. "I thought you didn't care about-"

  
  


"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," Sherlock cut him off. Apparently, there was still part of Sherlock that John didn't know. Or maybe showing him the stars was a sort of apology on his part; after all, John would never come here by himself to see them, so it was a kind of Sherlock-only place. He let him into his own world for a split second. Even though that part of Sherlockland was dirty, graffiti-covered and very smelly, it was to be appreciated.

  
  


John made a mental note of that and continued summarizing to Sherlock what he had learned about Alex Woodbridge earlier that day, along with the fact that Woodbridge had received a message from a professor Cairns on his answering machine. Sherlock led the way and in turn explained to him a bit about how his homeless network worked, and that was when John saw that there actually were homeless people everywhere around, without teeth and probably arms and legs, filthy and reeking and everything...

  
  


But that wasn't what Sherlock was looking for. That was the network; despite their looks, those people wouldn't harm him if he was with Sherlock.

  
  


What he was looking for showed itself a moment later, and that was when John saw the Golem.

  
  


They both hid around a corner. The Golem was a giant man, and his shadow fell upon the wall. There was no way they could take him down by themselves, and John reached instinctively for his gun. It seemed so small compared to the size of the man, but it would probably be of some help...

  
  


It was too late anyway; the Golem started running away, they followed at top speed, but he got into a car that drove off immediately.

  
  


Sherlock punched the air in frustration, but John already had an idea where the Golem might have gone; he once again felt that he was indispensable for the case, as he remembered the name of the professor, after whom the Golem must have gone, and this reassured Sherlock. John felt really needed for the first time since the case had started.

  
  


***

  
  


At the planetarium, on the stage of the amphitheatre, John thought he would literally shit his pants when the Golem appeared out of nowhere at Sherlock's yell. Professor Cairns had been strangled and was still lying on the mixing desk, the tape she had been watching spooling back and forth, all the buttons pressed. John aimed his gun at the monster he could see only in the moments when the projector was playing the tape and lighting up the room. 

  
  


And then the giant caught hold of Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes widened with sudden fear and surprise. The Golem was at least a foot taller than him, and his hands were so large and strong that Sherlock's struggles accomplished nothing.

  
  


John's hand didn't shake in the slightest. He called out to the Golem, never letting his gun drop for a second. "Let him go," he said menacingly, fear slowly creeping  through his mind, "or I will kill you." The cold metal in his hand reassured him. He felt like he was back in the army.

  
  


The Golem jumped at him when the tape spooled, but Sherlock was already there, trying hopelessly to knock out the giant as the Golem simply pushed him to the floor with one hand and started to strangle him again. John threw himself onto the giant's back, putting a guillotine lock on his neck in an attempt to distract him and to save Sherlock from suffocation. The giant thrashed about, and John hoped against hope that Sherlock would realise that his gun was there somewhere on the ground. Brilliant as he was, Sherlock did realise, and just as the giant threw John on the ground with all his force, squeezing the air out of his lungs, Sherlock rolled onto his back and started shooting.

  
  


The projector blinded him and he missed.

  
  


John was lying on the ground, trying to assess his injuries and get up at the same time. A hand, clad in a leather glove, appeared in his sight. With a groan, he grasped it and got up. He read the gesture as another apology and a thank-you. He knew Sherlock too well to interpret it otherwise.

  
  


"If it makes you feel better, I was scared too," Sherlock said simply, his voice still a bit shaky after almost meeting death. John grinned, steadying his breath and swallowing to make his throat less dry.

  
  


"Yeah, I know," he managed at last. "Well, at least your shooting at the wall was finally of some use."

  
  


Sherlock chuckled. The tape was still spooling back and forth, and they were standing there, panting; there was a bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek; they looked into each other's eyes for a second longer than was necessary.

  
  


John gulped. He was feeling like that again: his heart beating; his palms sweating; his throat dry. He clenched and unclenched his fists. They were so close to each other that John had to look up a bit to meet Sherlock's eyes. And, to make matters worse, they were still holding hands.

  
  


"Um, Sherlock," John started, letting go of Sherlock's hand and pointing to his face. "You might have a bruise later... there," he brushed the place with his thumb. Sherlock didn't take a step back. It was awkward. It had to be be a dream. Or he could just be dead and seeing things. What the fuck was happening again?

  
  


But it was real. Sherlock looked at his hand, as if he could see the bruise on his own face. John licked his lips as Sherlock's eyes returned to meet his own.

  
  


"Doesn't matter," Sherlock spat, suddenly not grinning anymore but frowning, and he stormed out of the planetarium so quickly that John had to run to catch up.

  
  


***

  
  


The Vermeer painting was a fake because the supernova depicted in it had only appeared in the sky two hundred years later than it had allegedly been painted.

  
  


John had been shaking with the tension around them when Sherlock finally guessed and stopped the kid counting. It had to be Sherlock who worked it out, no-one else's help would have been acceptable to the maniac controlling the child. It turned out that some knowledge of astronomy was useful at times...

  
  


Lestrade was squeezing John's upper arm so tightly in the meantime that John felt his fingers going numb. The inspector eventually let go when Sherlock handed him the phone to find out where the child was.

  
  


When the first shock had worn off, John couldn't help but be astonished at how quickly Sherlock was able to connect facts in a field he had no clue about. He was, again, brilliant. He was brilliant and twisted at the same time, but having seen him so frightened back there in the planetarium only made John want to do whatever he could to never see him like that again.

  
  


In fact, it made him want to hug him, pat him on the head and tell him that everything was alright and John was there with him and for him. That feeling came to him as a surprise; what the hell was happening to him? Was he becoming a sentimental pussy? Or did he simply care?

  
  


When Sherlock and Mrs. Wenceslas went to the Yard to discuss everything with Lestrade, John decided that he wasn't all that necessary, especially as Sherlock already knew everything he had to know about that case. So, urged on by a text message from Mycroft, he proceeded with Westie's case.

  
  


And that gave him more time to think. Things were spinning out of control. That... thing in the planetarium. It was just like a scene from one of those crappy novels for teenagers that Harry had read when she was an adolescent. John had already discovered that Sherlock, in some mysterious way, turned him on; there was no other name for it, and he had to deal with it. But the problem was that guys had never turned him on before; he had been totally straight and it had been only women, with their curves, and boobs, and vaginas, for God's sake... It wasn't like he wanted to fuck Sherlock, but somehow the detective made him feel aroused. The human mind held so many mysteries.

  
  


But he had to concentrate on the task at hand. He talked to a guy at the railway station who showed him to the place where Westie had been found. However, it turned out that there was no blood on the rails, so John figured out that the body must have been transported there from somewhere else.

  
  


"Right..." he said to himself, as the guard left him. "Andrew West got on the train somewhere – or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here...?"

  
  


A set of points slid to the side, changing the configuration of the track. John squatted down and looked thoughtfully at the tracks, feeling his brain going numb with the inability to deduce anything... And just then he heard a well-known voice behind him. He jumped up.

  
  


And he had thought he would have time to think for a bit without Sherlock hanging around.

  
  


"I knew you would get there eventually," Sherlock said. It was almost praise. "West wasn't killed here, that's why there was so little blood."

  
  


"How long have you been following me?" John asked, a bit taken aback by  his sudden appearance and by the fact that it was now obvious that Sherlock was spying on him again.

  
  


"Since the start," Sherlock replied. "You don't think I'd... give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

  
  


And there John was thinking that he had managed to do something by himself for once, but it had been Sherlock all along. Somehow, it didn't piss him off as much as he expected it to, but a thought appeared in his head: maybe Sherlock had continued solving this case not only because of Mycroft, but also in order to be closer to John...?

  
  


"Come on, we've got a bit of burglary to do," Sherlock said, walking away again. And John followed. Again.

  
  


***

  
  


Breaking into Joe's flat was one of these things that John had thought he could never possibly do in his life. It was exciting, in a sick way. These were the moments when John understood why Sherlock got excited over illegal things; it was the mere fact that they were illegal. The forbidden fruit and all that.

  
  


John's gun came of use again, but Joe didn't oppose them too much: at first he was just scared, then he told them everything, including how he had got hold of the plans and then killed his prospective brother-in-law... it had all been an accident, as it turned out. The guy was simply scared. Of course, that didn't make him any less guilty, but at least it didn't disturb John's sense of morality.

  
  


This part was finished. The plans were there, in Sherlock's coat pocket.

  
  


And as the bomber hadn't contacted them by then, John thought he would now have some time to think it all over again. He had to do something about the swarm of thoughts repressed in his mind or he  was going to go crazy.


	11. Chapter 11

There are moments in everyone's life when, seemingly out of nowhere, all that you believed to be true, that you thought you knew about yourself, shatters into thin pieces and everything must be rebuilt from scratch. It's as if some great power is trying to weed out all those lies that have been rooted in your heart for as long as you can remember, without anaesthetic, and it hurts. You remember the ideals you had when you formed your views about the world, and realise that somewhere between then and now you lost the truth and tried to build your personality on lies. You tried to build your true self on something that wasn't even true. And it hurts.

  
  


John Watson had one of these moments when he had left Sherlock, who would hopefully return home immediately. As he walked away, he turned to look at Sherlock getting into the cab. Sherlock looked back and sent him a half-smile. John waved back.

  
  


He went to the park to rethink all that had happened during these few weeks. And this rethinking was precisely why he was now sitting on a park bench, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands, and his frame trembling with sobs.

  
  


It came out of nowhere. He hadn't been expecting to cry. He had been just expecting to sit there and think and then go back home to normality, if you could use that word when you lived with Sherlock.

  
  


Except that nothing would be normal ever again. Not with the changes that had happened in his mind. Now he could be sure of it: he was attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He was attracted to a freak. He was sexually attracted to another man. He didn't know which one of these was the worst, and he didn't know where it had come from, or when. At first, it didn't even seem a big deal; but the truth was that this attraction could damage their relationship beyond repair, and Sherlock was, after all, his best friend. He certainly didn't want to freak the man out.

  
  


Maybe it would be best if he just went away. But that was not going to happen; Sherlock would find him, and confront him, and he would have to tell him anyway. So he had to be brave.

  
  


He took a deep breath and leaned back on the bench, forcing his shoulders to relax. He stopped his train of thought (another useful technique he had learnt during his therapy) and instead directed his thoughts towardsthe reasons this situation was causing him so much stress.

  
  


He worked out it might be just because he had been such a wreck when he came back from Afghanistan: he didn't have any friends, probably had PTSD, and suffered from psychosomatic pains in his leg. And he was getting old, and was bored beyond measure, with every day looking just the same. He didn't want to live like that, he wanted to start again, to be who he really wanted to be; but the sad truth was that who he really wanted to be was different from who he really thought he wanted to be.

  
  


What he knew about himself was that he had always got by somehow. He liked to socialize from time to time, to have a pint or two with his pals or to watch a football match, much like any other man of his age. He had also wanted to build a steady relationship with a girl, maybe somewhere in the countryside. But somewhere at the back of his mind was the realization that it would only add to his boredom. Nevertheless,he had started to settle for this model of life, when Sherlock had got in the way. And if he hadn't met him, his life would probably be very much like that dream that wasn't even his own, and he would have grown old with the feeling that he had missed something along the way. And that was why Sherlock was so important. If John just went away, he would simply return to his miserable old life of his own free will, which would be hopelessly stupid from the point of view of his happiness. But if he stayed, wouldn't he make Sherlock's life miserable? 

  
  


Out of the blue, there came a memory. He recalled the time when he was in secondary school, and his mum was still alive. Mums know things, and John's mum always knew when something was wrong. She wasn't always able to help, of course, but John was aware that she at least knew. Moreover, she usually knew more than anyone else, including John, which often came as a surprise to him. Even if she didn't tell him, he knew that if he had asked, she would have given him the courage to solve the problem. When mum died, John was too alone to bear it. There still was Harry, whom John cared about, but it just wasn't the same. Sure, Harry was one of the reasons why John didn't just call it quits then, but she was rebellious, egoistic and while John took care of Harry when she had any kind of problem, he was terribly afraid that she would make fun of him if he told her about his issues and insecurities. She simply didn't care, even though everyone cared about her, and for John that carelessness was what discouraged him further from discussing his problems with her. And when Harry started drinking, John couldn't help not feeling guilty; he felt that her own carelessness had brought it about, which of course didn't mean that John had stopped caring about her.

  
  


But with mum it had been so different. He could talk with mum about everything. The situation that came to his mind was when a sixteen-year old, spotty John had decided that since everybody had a girlfriend, he would like to have one too. He invited one Mary for coffee. It was a proper date, she seemed to like him, so they went out a couple of times more. Then, one particularly beautiful autumn evening, John was walking her home, having really enjoyed the time he had spent with her in the park, collecting leaves and feeding ducks and squirrels, and when they were about to part, Mary stood on tip-toe and kissed him. And John took a step back, breaking the kiss before it had even properly started. He was so startled that he couldn't utter a word when Mary, with a look of utter devastation on her face, fled towards the door of her house. When the door slammed shut, he called after her, but she didn't come back. When he got home, he tried phoning her once, twice, and she finally picked up after the tenth time.

  
  


"Why did you back off?" she asked.

  
  


"I don't know," John replied, and it was true. He did want to kiss her. It was just that something had gone wrong.

  
  


"I really liked you," Mary said. She left a long pause. "But I don't think that you feel the same towards me. I can't take this uncertainty anymore, I think we should break up." 

  
  


John's mouth had gone dry. He didn't know what to say.

  
  


"Goodbye, John," and she hung up.

  
  


John held the beeping telephone in front of his face for a long while. He felt horrible. He felt humiliated in his own eyes. He hadn't been able to even maintain a two-week relationship with a girl. What was the actual point of even starting if you could be so hurt by the outcome?

  
  


He noticed that his face was wet. He dried the tears off with his sleeve and went downstairs. His mum was sitting in the kitchen and when he saw her, for a moment he considered going back to his room. But he didn't; he straightened his back and went to the fridge to get some comfort food. It would make his acne worse, but that was his least concern at that moment. If Mary didn't want to be with him, he didn't want to be with anyone.

  
  


Mum said nothing at first. John half-hoped that she would ask him a question that he could answer with a word or two and everything would be back to normal. But she said nothing, and John could feel tears running down his face again. He sniffed involuntarily, wet drops falling onto the box of ice-cream he had retrieved from the freezer.

  
  


Mum stood up and took the box out of his hands. She divided the vanilla ice-cream into two large portions with a spoon and put them into bowls that she then put on the table. She still hadn't said anything, but John started talking anyway.

  
  


"Mary's broken up with me," he said, trying not to let his voice sound whiny and failing miserably. He felt his mouth twist in sadness. "The date was okay, but then she tried to kiss me and I backed off."

  
  


John devoured a spoonful of ice-cream, relishing in the sweet taste of soft vanilla-flavoured frozen cream, melting on his tongue. Mum's smile was warm and comforting. If he could just stay like that for his whole life, not having to face the reality without Mary again...

  
  


Mum spoke. "Johnny, I know it's hard, breaking up and everything, but better ask yourself whether you want to be with a girl who breaks up with you just because you got nervous during your first kiss. I mean, she didn't even want to talk about that, did she?"

  
  


John cast a look at his mum and returned to his ice-cream.

  
  


"I don't know what I want now," he said in a low voice. "Now you say it, it seems perfectly logical that she's a halfwit, but still..." There was a long silence.

  
  


"Can you promise me that no matter what happens, you will never give up believing in yourself?" mum asked. John sent her a half-hearted smile, jabbing his ice-cream with the spoon. He wiped another tear from his face.

  
  


And from that day, not giving up was John's strategy for finishing his studies, getting by in the army, surviving that long with Sherlock. Even though his self-esteem had been quite low all his life, he managed to survive it somehow. He even managed to get into a few relationships. And at least he knew that he could find a way out of every trouble, even if not as gracefully as he would want at first.

  
  


Despite his mum's best efforts, the next day at school was horrible. All of Mary's friends seemed to think that John was most certainly gay (because of course she told virtually everybody about the kissing incident), and some of his mean classmates copied them. It resulted in making John's already weak self-esteem plummet, so when he came back from school, mum knew at once what had been the outcome of the kissing incident.

  
  


"Why don't you try dealing with it slowly? They will soon get bored and forget all about it. Kids can be mean, you know." Mum was chattering while washing the dishes. John was leaning against the kitchen counter, feeling very depressed. To make matters worse, the stress was making his acne worse, which of course only encouraged his classmates to make fun of him.

  
  


"I will show them that I'm not gay," he murmured.

  
  


"Don't," his mum replied simply, and explained under John's questioning look, "You don't have to prove anything to them. Whatever you do in life, do it only for yourself, and not to please anyone or show them that they were wrong. If they are, they will see it themselves in good time. But first of all you have to know what you really want, remember? And then pursue it just for good causes, okay? Just ask your conscience if what you are doing is good and it will tell you."

  
  


John nodded in silent approval. He felt a tiny bit better, as if he saw the first shy sun-rays peeping from behind a cloud after a whole day of storms.

  
  


As John remembered these two conversations, he knew that he had been unfair towards his mum after she died; he felt as if he had betrayed her memory. Of course he did always do his best and never gave up on anything, which sometimes meant doing the craziest things in the world, but this time he was trying to prove... what? That he didn't admire Sherlock? That he wasn't gay? That he was okay with his relationships, or rather the lack of them? That he was okay with working as a GP his whole life? What had happened to his resolutions? It all meant that he had been living one giant lie, trying to prove to himself that there was not even the remotest chance of being attracted to a man. But he had fallen in love with the only consulting detective in the world at some point, and to make matters worse, fallen in love completely and madly. He had to admit it for his own sake.

  
  


The statement made him look at his life from a new perspective, from a distance that had been totally unknown for him. He had always thought he was as straight as he could possibly be (the army was a school of hard knocks when it came to being gay), but now it turned out that he was feeling manly and at the same time in love with another man. Moreover, he felt as if deciding on admiring Sherlock was the manliest decision of his life, or at least the truest one.

  
  


Then he remembered every single time that someone had supposed that he was gay or that Sherlock and he were a couple. It hurt again, because now he knew that they had seen what he had not, just how much he admired Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Angelo... the list was long. He remembered the time when he had asked Sherlock whether he had a girlfriend and he had said that it wasn't his area, and then he had asked whether he had a boyfriend and Sherlock had this weird look on his face, and said that he was married to his work and that he wasn't looking for any kind of relationship because he misunderstood John and thought he was trying to flirt with him... But that didn't matter back then.

  
  


He was so proud of himself that it hadn't been his therapist who had made him realize that.

  
  


John closed his eyes and imagined that his mum was there with him. What would she say? She would know that something was wrong. She would probably say that it didn't matter whether it was a man or a woman; that the only thing that mattered was that John was sure of it and wanted it. But John wasn't sure what exactly it was that he wanted. He just knew that all those weird situations which seemed to have been multiplying during the last few weeks were a result of him totally misinterpreting his own feelings.

  
  


But... there was one thing that he knew he wanted. No, actually two: the first was to always think like his mum did, and the second was to make Sherlock happy, even if it meant not seeing him ever again if Sherlock couldn't stand his revelations. He was at last being true to himself, and if Sherlock couldn't accept that, it was fine. But he also had to thank Sarah for making him come to these conclusions at last. Even though everybody had made comments about him and Sherlock being a couple, she had been the one who pointed out to him that all these times that he had been angry at Sherlock, he had forgiven him at once, and when Sherlock had been angry at him, or behaving in a strange way, he had spent way too much time trying to decipher what he had really meant, and usually failed miserably, but he always wanted everything to be alright between them. And despite the fact that sometimes Sherlock put him at his wits' end, John always came back. He wanted to come back. He wanted to stay. He wanted it all, even to have Sherlock make him furious, because that was what gave meaning to his life. Otherwise, he would be the GP with three children, living in the countryside and wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

  
  


All the scenarios in his head were certainly not on the 'friends only' level; they were on the 'in love' level. And it didn't matter whether it was a man or a woman. At least, it didn't matter to John anymore.

  
  


"Thank you, mum," John said, wiping the remaining tears off his face again. He felt like jumping and prancing around just to get back to Baker Street and...

  
  


Exactly, and what then? Sherlock still had all his attention on the case. John couldn't just tell him straight away that he was in love with him because Sherlock's reactions were impossible to predict. He would do it just after they had finished the case. When everyone was safe and they had plenty of time to discuss it. It wasn't postponing a very important conversation; it was his conscious decision not to distract Sherlock.

  
  


He remembered Sarah again. Their relationship had become a little bit complicated with that whole thing about Sherlock, but John only smiled when he extracted his phone from the pocket of his coat. Sarah had already known, hadn't she? She was just waiting for John to decide what it was. And he had decided.

  
  


He texted Sarah, asking whether he could drop by that evening. She agreed.

  
  


He was in love. He was in love. He was in love, again. He was in love with the world's only consulting detective. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

  
  


He felt as if he was sixteen again.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

John decided that it was of utmost importance not to distract Sherlock during this very demanding case; John's sudden revelation might, after all, have rather an undesirable outcome (which in practice meant that Sherlock would just yell at him for trying to distract him and would most probably never talk to him again; at least, that was the darkest scenario that John could come up with).

So, when he returned home, John just started writing a draft note for his blog, of course not revealing much about the case then. The windows still hadn't been replaced after the explosion, and while the days were rather warm, this night was particularly chilly, and both John and Sherlock were wrapped in their coats. John was actually quite happy that he had asked Sarah if he could drop in at her place, which was certainly warmer than their flat at night. And it was his last chance to meet up with her before she went away for a few days to a week, as she had reminded John in her text.

Sherlock was watching a TV show with his legs drawn up (John still wondered how on Earth he could be comfortable in such a position, long-legged as he was, but at least it seemed to keep him warmer), being very noisy about how the people on the show didn't see the obvious. Well, at least he wasn't shooting at the walls or setting fire to their kitchen table (which, on the other hand, probably would at least give them some more heat). The pink phone was lying on the armrest, as if waiting for another message.

"I knew it was dangerous," John stated after a particularly loud outburst from Sherlock, "Getting you into crap telly."

"Not a patch on Connie Prince," Sherlock retorted.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked, remembering the complete mayhem that the tiny gadget had caused.

"Yep. He was over the moon," Sherlock replied. John noticed that he was unnaturally agitated and in a particularly good mood despite the cold, but that was probably due to the excitement with the case that was still unsolved, as they still didn't know who the bomber was. Sherlock took an audible breath and continued, "Threatened me with knighthood... again."

"You know, I'm still waiting," John said, and maybe he imagined it, but Sherlock's breath hitched. Or maybe that was an unfinished snort of suppressed laughter at the TV show. "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"It didn't do you any good, did it?" Sherlock sneered.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," John knew that he would miss  this bickering if Sherlock turned out to be a homophobe. Or rather a Johnophobe.

"True," Sherlock muttered, his eyes once again on the telly.

John cleared his throat and closed his laptop. "I won't be in for tea," he said. "I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge," although he knew that Sherlock probably wouldn't eat it. "Erm... Milk! We need milk," John muttered, making a mental note to buy it either on his way back or in the morning. He pulled on his coat.

"I'll get some," Sherlock said before John had even finished. John at first thought he had misheard him, but he hadn't. He turned his head in disbelief.

"Really?" he asked, grinning. It was so unlike Sherlock, so very nice of him to do chores like that instead of making John do them. It seemed that Sherlock desperately needed something to occupy himself with while he waited for another puzzle to solve; but on the other hand it all seemed like a carefully devised plan – if Sherlock did the chores only rarely, John would be all the more pleased when he actually lowered himself to the level of buying milk and washing up. Clever bastard. John grinned even more.

"Really," the detective replied, and John decided to try his luck a second time.

"And some beans, then?"

Sherlock grunted in acquiescence, and John was free to go.

It was ten o'clock already and even more chilly outside than in their flat. John, despite being at last true to himself and in perfect harmony with his heart, had to remind himself that he was going to Sarah's place to, well, basically break up with her. He would tell her that she was gorgeous, and smart, and beautiful, and so understanding, which was all true, and that he really had been looking forward to their relationship blooming; but that it was in fact who had made him realize that it was not meant to be, because she herself could see that Sherlock meant a lot to him; and even though it was a bitter ending to such a relationship, John was really grateful to her for making him realize his true feelings and still wanted them to be friends, because that had already been the foundation of their relationship. That was some good reasoning to start with.

Actually, it was quite disappointing that they hadn't made it to sex (John really missed it), but maybe it was better that he finished it now and not when it had become even more complicated?

Thus lost in thought, John turned a corner and was greeted with the sight of a black car slowing down just beside him. He slowed down too. There was no living soul on the street. The car had mirror windows, so he could see nothing of the inside. At first he thought it was Mycroft's doing, but he changed his mind when a window rolled down and an unknown voice from the inside spoke to him.

"Either you get in yourself or we make you do it."

Mycroft wouldn't be that outright, would he?

John felt his heart quicken its pace. It certainly was one of these classic dangerous situations that every schoolteacher had to discuss with their pupils, and he walked on, pretending not to have heard, but the car followed him. He reached for his gun, but it wasn't there – he hadn't taken it as he was only going to Sarah's. And now he couldn't even go to Sarah's place as that would put her at risk, he couldn't text anybody because they would see and might possibly shoot him or something (he felt a painful jolt in his shoulder at that thought), so the only possible solution was to get to the Yard as soon as possible, but without running, as that would be suspicious too. So he simply walked on, never letting the car out of his sight.

However, moments later a man jumped out of the car, apparently taking his behaviour for a refusal to co-operate. John turned to defend himself with a fast blow to the guy's sensitive body parts, but his opponent had one major advantage in the form of a can of pepper spray. John ducked to avoid the stream of liquid capsaicin and hit the guy in the stomach with his head, but the offender was quicker and smashed the can againstthe back of John's head. Everything went dark.


	13. Chapter 13

He was in love with Sherlock. It was the best feeling ever – realizing he had been in love for so long and mistaken it for something else. He would have to tell Sherlock as soon as possible when the case came to an end. He simply had to, he couldn't hide it anymore. In his mind, it had suddenly become simple. He knew it was good. Of course, there might be trouble afterwards, but now he was half-asleep and peaceful and– 

There was a splash of cold water to his face.

It was enough to wake him up.

"What the fuck–" John started, opening his eyes. His head hurt terribly; he felt as if someone had been dragging him around... and he could smell chlorine. He was... at a swimming pool, it seemed. The corridor he was in was the one that led to the changing rooms; John remembered having been there before, once or twice... He wasn't particularly keen on swimming, so what the hell was he doing at a swimming pool?

He realized that the pleasant state of half-slumber was in fact him regaining consciousness; he had been tied to a chair and there was Jim from Barts' IT department, dressed in a suit and looking very smart and yet somehow absurd. Was it he who was holding John captive? Why? What for? He was the gay IT guy, for God's sake, not some criminal who kidnapped people for ransom...

"Hello, Johnny boy," Jim said with a smile that was so creepy it sent shivers down John's spine. "Let's have some fun, shall we?"

He definitely wasn't as gay as he had been that day at Barts, though the jacket made his chest look even skinnier. John tugged at his bonds, but it was no use – the metal chain was pulled tight around his wrists. He could feel a lump growing at the back of his head where he had been hit; how long had he been unconscious? He remembered he had arranged a meeting with Sarah; she was probably worried now...

But what the hell was happening? Had he been kidnapped for ransom? He had very little money himself, Harry wasn't wealthy either, that left them only with Sherlock who was on the wealthier side... The thought appeared that he might be turned into a sex slave, but that was just ridiculous, so John dismissed it. He had to assess the situation. Observe, as Sherlock would say. Which would be easier if he wasn't starting to feel damn afraid and could just keep a cool head...

He was wearing a coat, a few sizes too big, that was definitely not his own. And there was something underneath it, but John wasn't sure what it was. Some boxes? Metal containers? He couldn't see them properly with his hands tied back like that. A red dot of light was dancing on his chest. And there was something – a cable? - taped to his neck, and a tiny plastic thing in his ear...

And then he understood. These boxes were bombs; he was another victim of the bomber, and the bomber was none other than Jim. A surge of rage almost blinded John; he would have beaten Jim to a pulp if he could, for killing all those people, for making them suffer, for making Sherlock, who was a good man after all, albeit a little lost sometimes, play that sick game with this twisted bastard, and for carrying out John's wish to try Sherlock's friendship by placing himself in the shoes of the victim... could Jim read his fucking mind?

This internal monologue must have shown on his face, as Jim's grin became even wider.

"Ohh, you know the rules," he piped with delight. "That's so much better, Johnny." The grin disappeared from his face in a split second. The guy was a skilled showman. "Pray that your boyfriend comes along soon or you will never see him again."

John tugged against the bonds, clenching his teeth to stop himself spitting in Jim's face.

"He's not my–"

"Na-ah, don't struggle or I will have to shoot you now and the game will be over," Jim chanted. "We wouldn't like to grab our toys and go home just yet, would we?"

"You think it's a motherfucking game, you–" John burst out. He couldn't find an epithet that would do Jim justice. "You were behind all this! Fuck you! You're sick!"

"A dog that barks doesn't bite, Johnny boy," Jim chattered on, approaching John until his face was centimetres from John's. Then he pulled a small microphone out of his jacket pocket and blew into it. John winced at the loud, unpleasant noise.

He looked Jim in the eye and understood. That was it. Jim had him in the palm of his hand and John had no other choice but to play along; otherwise he would never get a chance to tell Sherlock he– well, it was rather difficult to admit it now that he was conscious. He regretted so much not doing it earlier; he just hoped that Sarah would get so worried she'd call Sherlock, and Sherlock would come and...

And John would still be unable to speak freely because Jim would dictate the words to him. Those were the rules of the game. But he had to take the chance to survive this and then, just then, he would tell Sherlock straight away. He wasn't some bloody chicken, after all.

"Just a quick reminder," Jim said into the microphone, walking backwards out of the room. "Repeat everything word-for-word, or I will shoot you. Don't move, unless I tell you otherwise, or I will shoot you. Don't try to oppose me in any way, or I will shoot you. And when I shoot you, boom. That would be romantic, to die together with your boyfriend, wouldn't it?"

John was only a pawn in the game of geniuses, but at least he knew on whose side he was. And Sherlock would know, wouldn't he? Or would he dismiss the whole incident as unworthy of his care and let John die there alone?

Anyway, it was worth trying. That was the only option that gave him remote chance of not being blown to pieces.

***

John was released by the same guy who had attacked him and pulled him into the car. John wanted to say something deeply unpleasant to him so badly, but he couldn't, as the red dot was again indicating that he was being watched and aimed at.

"Let the game begin," he heard Jim cackle in his ear. "Walk slowly out of the room and through the fifth door on the left."

John opened the tiny dressing cubicle and walked into it, and in seconds 2 – You can't usually get into those little cubicles from the back, only from the poolside. So John would have to enter it, and then have Sherlock enter. Either that, or he needs to already be in the cubicle from when he wakes up, which would require a bit of rewriting in the last few paragraphs. he heard Sherlock begin monologuing in the swimming pool area. He was obviously talking to the mastermind, accusing him of making him dance around instead of doing real work, and John suddenly felt very afraid. He had experienced this feeling before, back in Afghanistan. It was one of those hopeless situations where he must simply do what he was told to do and pray that everything ended up well. A trap. He wanted so badly to tell Sherlock to run away as fast as he could, but he knew that if he said it, Jim would first blow John to pieces, and then get hold of Sherlock and kill him anyway.

"Say: Evening," John heard.

"Evening," he said, thankful that his voice wasn't shaking as much as his legs were. At least he still had that much control over his body.

"Say: This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Oh, God.

John hoped that his voice came out as little like himself as possible when he repeated the words, so that Sherlock would know that it was dictated, that he wasn't doing it out of his own free will, that he was just another of those poor people...

He forced himself to look Sherlock straight in the face. He tried to stare at him in a way that would make him understand... but apparently he overestimated his powers of telepathy.

"John... What the hell?" the detective said in a low voice, as if his throat had gone dry and tight. Sherlock was disappointed. And hurt. John had never seen Sherlock this hurt in his life; he wanted to scream that he wasn't behind it, that it was Jim, the one from IT, and that he was there, always faithful to him and that he would never–

But, actually, this hurt was the most human emotion that John had ever seen Sherlock express. It meant that he had trusted John, that he had cared, after all. And now Jim wanted to shatter that trust, that delicate confidence that John had won, and that was unforgivable.

"Say: Bet you never saw this coming," John heard and repeated. Sherlock approached him slowly, and John hoped so much that he had already worked out that there had been something wrong, that it hadn't been John behind it, that Jim had been Moriarty all this time...

"Open the coat and say: What... would you like me... to make him say... next," Jim chanted gleefully. John could almost see him prancing around in the tiled corridors. When John opened the coat, he saw two red dots of light dancing on the bombs strapped to his chest. His palms were sweating and he was sure he was as pale as a ghost. He braced himself and tried to convince his body that now would be the worst moment to collapse.

Sherlock's eyes widened. He understood. He did, he thankfully did, and the hurt was gone. John felt slightly reassured.

Jim made John repeat "gottle o'gear" several times, until John felt sick. Sherlock told Jim to stop, and he did.

"Say: Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died."

John repeated. Sherlock was approaching him, looking him straight in the eye, and it was somehow comforting, confirming that he understood everything at last. The thought that Sherlock really might have suspected even for a second that John could be behind all this was horrifying, but it was over; now Sherlock knew and he believed John, and he would come up with something to save them both... And John could tell him that–

He couldn't finish the thought as he heard Jim speak again. "I stopped him. I could stop John Watson too. Stop his heart," as John was repeating the words, his mouth was going more and more numb with fear. The sniper was aiming at him and it would be so much worse than being shot... though at least it would be over in no time.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, his voice echoing in the big hall. Immediately there was the creaking of door and John heard Jim's voice, not through the microphone anymore, but behind him. He fought the impulse to turn.

"I gave you my number, I thought you might call," Jim said from somewhere next to the door to the pool area. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" he continued, and John could hear him approaching. He hated it when someone moved behind him, especially if he wasn't sure whether the person was armed or not. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun, John's gun. John was so glad that Sherlock had brought it with him. The gun could, maybe, make it possible to finish it all a lot quicker...

"Both," Sherlock said, aiming the gun at Jim.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi," Jim chanted with terrifying cockiness for a man who had a gun aimed at him. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" he mocked the questions that he supposed Sherlock would be asking himself. Sherlock steadied the gun with his other hand. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

Sherlock cast a quick glance at John. The red dot was still on John's chest, John could see it now if he tilted his head slightly down. It was obvious that Moriarty wasn't holding the gun, that the snipers were somewhere out there, and it would be no good if Sherlock shot Moriarty because then the snipers would simply shoot at them both until there was nothing left...

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty," Jim confirmed John's speculations, changing his voice to a more serious tone. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was husky with... what? Was that anger? Disappointment? Hurt? Or everything at once? He sounded a bit as if he wanted to cry, although maybe that was just John projecting his own wishes...

"Dear Jim," Sherlock said, referring to the parts of the case, "Please, will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so," Jim replied, his voice a mocking chant again. It was so annoying.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock concluded shortly. His hand shook slightly, but he steadied it once again. "Brilliant," he almost whispered, and John had to admit he agreed, but that didn't make him change his opinion that what Jim had done was just plain sick.

John's mind drifted away from what was happening; he heard both men as if through a wall, so he tried focusing his attention on the red dots on his chest. He had met death in Afghanistan  previously and he had hoped he would never have to meet it again, but there he was, brushing against it, almost shaking hands, just after his life had changed so much with the realization that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes... was it some kind of a punishment? Was he really that bad a person? John didn't really believe in any higher power, but it was simply ironic that he had taken such a long time to come to those conclusions and now there was a real possibility that he would take them to his grave.

But John wouldn't play death's game; he was already playing Moriarty's, and, as it turned out, it would be so much easier to outfox death than Moriarty. Death was simple and plain, while people were twisted, cruel and egoistic, and Moriarty was the most twisted, the most cruel and the most egoistic man he had ever met.

He was brought back to reality by Jim yelling, "That's what people DO!" His voice echoed  around the pool area.

"I will stop you," Sherlock said when the echoes subsided.

"No you won't," Jim replied in a high-pitched tone, smug as ever.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at John. "You all right?" he asked curtly. John could only look at him: he wanted to do so many things, but he couldn't...

"You can talk, Johnny boy, go ahead," Jim chanted, but John knew that he was only trying to make John break the rules of the game and get shot. He nodded his head slightly. He felt new strength enter his limbs; that was the point when he found he was no longer afraid; the hopelessness had reached such a high level that John didn't care anymore, but he had to do something or he would go crazy.

"Take it," Sherlock barked, extending his hand with the memory stick towards Jim.

"Oh," Moriarty approached him, and John prayed that he would take another step... "That? The missile plans," Jim kissed the memory stick reverently, and then suddenly–

"Boring! I could have got them anywhere." With these words he threw the little gadget into the pool. That was John's chance – not thinking, he ran towards Jim, jumped on his back and held him tightly, not really putting on a guillotine as the bombs were in the way, but holding him  strongly enough for him not to escape easily. It didn't help that Moriarty was taller than him and was standing straight as John struggled to hold the grip on his neck.

"Sherlock, run!" John shouted. Sherlock still stood there, pointing the gun at Jim; John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was surprised or simply unwilling to leave John alone.

"Oh, good!" Jim laughed, "Very good!"

"If the sniper pulls the trigger," John said through clenched teeth, "Mr Moriarty, then we both go up."

"Ain't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around," Moriarty chattered to Sherlock. "But then, people get so sentimental about their pets...They're so touchingly loyal."

That totally pissed John off. He would have strangled Moriarty to death if it wasn't for the snipers hidden somewhere there, ready to kill them both if he tried anything.

"But whoops!" Moriarty yelled all of a sudden and made a move that threatened to throw John into the pool. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson..." And as he said that, another red dot of light flickered on Sherlock's forehead.

If John carried on, Sherlock would be shot. The thought alone made John feel as if he had a lump of ice in his stomach. He let go of Moriarty, feeling the energy drain from him once again and the helplessness come back.

"Gotcha," Jim sang as John backed off. He brushed the lapels of his suit. "Westwood," he indicated. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed," Sherlock replied, the gun still pointing at Jim.

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no, no – if you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

John couldn't see Jim's face, but the tone of his voice meant he was showing off again. John wasn't even afraid anymore. He was furious, sick and hopeless.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock said to him. John felt a pang of guilt at this one.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Jim said. John knew too. The feelings in Sherlock's eyes when he had first seen John at the pool were an undeniable proof of his humanity. And now that he thought about it, there were many other moments when Sherlock had proved that he cared, in his own special way. "Well, I'd better be off," Jim said all of a sudden. "Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now?" Sherlock asked quickly before Moriarty made a move to leave. "Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Jim replied. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Having said that, Moriarty headed for the exit. His gaze lingered on Sherlock for a long time, as if he wanted to remember him well.

"Catch you later," Sherlock said slowly, drawling the words and still pointing at Moriarty with the gun.

"No you won't!" they heard, before the door was slammed shut.

John thought he would faint, his sight went blurry. Sherlock looked at him and realized the state he was in, dropped the gun and crouched to strip him of the bombs, asking urgently, "All right? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock," John replied, his mouth and hands numb, still standing only because Sherlock was tugging at his clothes. Sherlock pulled the coat furiously off him, as if it was burning, and threw it away across the ground. "Sherlock!" John called for the last time before his knees gave in and he leaned against one of the wooden partitions, panting, and he realized that Sherlock had almost just stripped him of his clothes, and then run away, and John tried to steady his breathing, and Sherlock was back, still holding the gun and scratching the back of his head with it, and John wanted to tell him that it was dangerous to do that, but he only said, breathlessly, "Are you OK?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine," Sherlock replied mindlessly, agitated to such a degree that he was not only fidgeting, but was totally undone. John had never seen him in such a state. It wasn't unpleasant, just different. The detective was still holding the gun, pointing it around as he talked. "That, er, thing you... that you did, that um, you offered to do, that was, um good."

John had never before heard Sherlock speak in such a chaotic manner. He smiled. It was a thank you, and a rather cute one. Was now the right moment to tell him? How to start?

"I'm glad no one saw that," John muttered, glancing at the coat lying there and remembering how Sherlock had ripped it off him. He plucked the tiny speaker out of his ear. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool; people might talk," he went on, pulling his cardigan back on. That wasn't the best beginning ever, but for fuck's sake, he deserved to be able to say anything he wanted for as long as he wanted now; he had survived the whole thing and so had Sherlock and the world was so beautiful and amazing, and brilliant, and John was still feeling a bit sick, but it at least meant he was still alive.

"They do little else," Sherlock replied and grinned at him. It was good. It was over. John felt light-headed. The danger was gone. He stood up and thought he would collapse again as he saw the red dots of light back on his chest.

"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable!" they heard Moriarty chime; back again. There were more red dots, on Sherlock too. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue."

Now neither of them could move. Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock in silent horror. Sherlock was afraid and John could see it. He was seeking support from John, and John nodded in silent approval for whatever it was that was coming to life in his mind. John trusted Sherlock to do the best thing possible, because that was what Sherlock always did.

"You just can't," Jim went on. "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

"Probably my answers have crossed yours," Sherlock said, his voice unwavering, and he turned back to Jim, pointing the gun at the discarded bombs. Jim smiled. John gulped. So, it seemed that this was their end. It was rather sad that he hadn't managed to tell Sherlock what he'd intended to, but, after all, it was quite romantic to die there, and at least he would die with Sherlock; maybe on the other side it would be easier to tell him?

John thought about his mum and hoped that he would maybe meet her somewhere there and thank her for everything she ever taught him; he didn't usually believe in life beyond death, but in moments like this, all such beliefs tended to falter and you somehow wanted there to be something more than just the end of everything. You wanted there to be a place where all people go and are peaceful at last and love each other, and things are easy. John was looking at Sherlock, wanting to remember him just as he was: proud, obnoxious, careless, egoistic, and at the same time brilliant and good-looking and smart and sometimes funny and intelligent as fuck and, also, his best friend.

He wondered for a moment which adjectives Sherlock would choose to describe him. Would he say that he was his best friend too?

And then a sound broke the silence. At first John didn't really register it and thought it was just his brain already reliving his whole life, but then he came back to reality and realized it was Jim's mobile phone ringing.

Ironically, the ringtone was "Staying Alive", by The Bee Gees.

Sherlock frowned and looked at John. Jim sighed.

"Do you mind if I get that?" he asked.

"No, please," Sherlock replied as if it was just a normal conversation, as if they hadn't been on the verge of death a mere moment ago. "You've got the rest of your life..."

"Hello?" Jim answered the call. His voice was normal, without the mocking chanting. "Yes, of course it is, what do you want?"

It was absurd. John leaned back against the wall, somehow unable to breathe as much air as he wanted into his lungs. What had happened during these two hours or so was certainly too much for his heart, he wasn't that young anymore... If he didn't die, maybe he could use a nice pint of–

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" Jim yelled all of a sudden and John flinched. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will skin you," he accompanied his words with an appropriate gesture. "Wait."

Jim lowered the hand with the phone and started walking slowly towards them. His gaze was on the coat with the bombs. Sherlock steadied his grip on the gun.

"Sorry..." Jim said. "Wrong day to die..."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked, still holding Jim at gunpoint. John could hear a curious mixture of relief and disappointment in his voice, which was so much like Sherlock.

Jim didn't answer the question. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he said simply, turning his back on them and walking away.

John wanted Sherlock so much to shoot him just then, but Sherlock didn't, and it was probably fortunate for them, as the snipers must have been there still. Moriarty resumed his phone conversation and simply left the pool area, talking to the person on the other end of the line, but not saying a word to them.

It was over... again. John really did hope that, this time, it was over for good.

"What happened there?" he asked, letting out the breath he noticed he had been holding, waiting for the explosion that he was sure would happen.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock replied, turning to face him. "The question is, who?"

"Does it really matter?" John asked, feeling at the moment very much like laughing at Sherlock's expression that he dubbed 'we-both-know-what-it's-about', which wasn't even that funny. He was still sitting with his back against the wall. He also felt dizzy, and very much so. It wasn't like just his head was swimming; it was as if though the whole world had suddenly gone into no-gravity mode. John had experienced that before after extremely stressful situations that demanded his utmost concentration, and the strange feeling meant only one thing – that he simply wouldn't have been able take it anymore, had it continued, and if he was lucky, he would now just burst into laughing and tears at the same time and make a complete idiot of himself, or he would faint. He didn't want to consider the other possible effects of extreme stress on human body.

He tried to stand up, but apparently the no-gravity mode was still on. Somehow, instead of going further away, the tiled floor started to get closer.

He felt Sherlock's strong arms catch him before he hit his head on the hard tiles, and he tried to stop him, but it was futile, he was too weak. It had to pass by itself...

The hard, cold surface under his bottom told him that he was sitting on the floor again.

"John!" he heard Sherlock shout, slapping his face lightly and shaking him by the shoulders.

"Oh, God, stop," John said, still trying to suppress a laugh. "Stop shaking me, for God's sake!"

Sherlock stopped and instead caught John in a rib-crushing hug, lifting him a little way off the floor.

"That's not better," John wheezed, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. Yes, he did want to hug him, but his plans didn't include death by suffocation.

Still holding him, Sherlock stood up and placed John on his feet. Then he let him go carefully, as if John might collapse again at any moment. 

"Oh my God," John panted, finally free to breathe, holding on to Sherlock's arm.

"I thought you were an atheist," Sherlock remarked, drawing John's arm over his shoulders. "Let's get out of here, quick."

"Is it really the right time to discuss my denomination or rather the lack of it?" John said, pressing his face against Sherlock's jacket. The difference in height didn't help much in their escape, even though Sherlock was trying to squat a bit to make it easier. And Sherlock was holding on to the hand that was over his shoulder; it was pleasant, even though John felt as if his shoulder was about to dislocate. He couldn't say anything more, his throat in a tight knot with all the emotions and relief. He could  only smile like an idiot. His thoughts were swirling around his head, and he definitely needed a good rest and a pint of some good beer. 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

They didn't say anything more to each other until they reached home, both too shocked and too exhausted to talk. John washed himself first and was slowly dragging his weary body to his bedroom when he saw that Sherlock was standing next to the still glassless window. The cold breeze seemed to stroke his hair gently. His gaze was empty; he was thinking, not looking out. The room was dark; Sherlock hadn't turned on the lights, but the curtains were not drawn, so the streetlamps were giving the room a faint orange illumination. John was so tired he thought he would fall asleep right there and then, but then he realized that if he didn't at least tell Sherlock that he had made a discovery about himself, it would be a long time before such an opportunity arose again. He had lost enough time already, and as, with their interests, they risked dying every other day, he didn't want to regret having taken his time again. 

So John cleared his throat. Sherlock's gaze shifted from the window and focused on him.

"John," he said, questioningly. His cheeks were still flushed, probably from the chilly air. He had bags under his eyes, tiny horizontal wrinkles on his forehead, made visible by the orange streetlight, and a day's stubble on his face. John probably looked even worse; he didn't even try looking at himself in the mirror, knowing he would only find new grey hair on his temples.

"I wanted to tell you something," he said, trying to keep his voice steady and natural.

"Isn't it something I know already?" came the question.

"Well, I don't think so. Today, I... decided to stop lying to myself... and you."

Sherlock smirked and turned to the window again. "How on Earth is it possible to lie to oneself? Is it when one is not aware of one's own thoughts, just sitting there in one's mind, waiting to be extracted?"

"Feelings, Sherlock. Not aware of one's feelings, not thoughts," John decided not to mock Sherlock's social skills again; this time, he wanted to get to the point. He wouldn't let Sherlock change the topic. But he was glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face that well, as John knew it was already blazing red. "And yes, it is possible, and I have been doing quite a lot my whole life, but today I decided that I can't do it anymore." He took a deep breath and saw that Sherlock had started fiddling with a button on his cuff and humming to himself quietly. "Are you even listening to me?" John asked, the tension in his body subsiding in a second.

"Yes, and I'm afraid I know where it might lead," Sherlock replied, turning and taking a step towards John, who started to panic. How could he possibly know? Had he deduced it?

But there was no backing off now. He had to say it. He had made up his mind back there at the pool; he had decided that whatever Sherlock's reaction might be, he had to tell him.

"I just wanted to tell you–"

"No."

"–that today I discov– What?"

"Don't."

John froze with his mouth open. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. That bastard seemed to actually know what he wanted to say, but he wasn't making it any easier.

"No, seriously, don't," Sherlock repeated, his face unreadable and his voice with a sad overtone to it. Or maybe he was just tired.

John crossed his arms. "Oh yeah, if you're so clever, then what did I want to say?"

Their eyes locked and for a moment John was seriously afraid that Sherlock not only knew, but didn't approve of his revelations. John considered backing off for a moment, thinking it wasn't the right moment, and it was so damn creepy to think that Sherlock might have known even before John himself did. Was it that obvious? And Sherlock hadn't said anything. Wasn't that a clear sign that John had almost ruined their friendship?

John felt his throat go dry, his heartbeat resounding in his ears. "You wanted to say," Sherlock said slowly, drawling the words for emphasis, "that you were really glad that we both survived this difficult and extremely stressful case."

John's heart skipped a beat and tripped over itself. He averted his gaze.

Maybe Sherlock simply didn't know but said so just to tease John. If so, John should have proceeded. Maybe Sherlock knew but wasn't ready for such a confrontation. Maybe he knew but didn't want to hurt John's feelings today by saying that he didn't love him back. Or maybe it was John who wasn't ready.

If they died before he confessed, it would all be Sherlock's fault.

"Yes," John said in a low voice. "That was... just what I wanted to say. Thanks for saving me, Sherlock."

"No problem. That's what friends do, right?" Sherlock turned back to the window, the sad-tired overtone to his voice still present.

"Yeah. Friends. Sure," John said, feeling lost. He forced a smile. "So, yeah. Good night. Sleep well." 

"Good night, John," Sherlock said, sending the doctor a little smile.

As John sat on his bed, upstairs, he heard the shower being turned on. He lay down and pulled the covers over himself. His eyes were prickling. He felt like crying, like going back down there and hugging Sherlock really tight, and telling him everything. But what Sherlock said was a no, he was sure of it, and there was no arguing with Sherlock on such matters.


	15. Epilogue

John expected a night without any dreams. But he had a pleasant one that partially compensated for his retreat, that somehow made him feel better about not telling Sherlock right away. The dream was that he was laying in his bed in his own dark room, and there was Sherlock, kneeling just next to the bed, with wet hair smelling of the damned shampoo, leaning against the side of the bed and stroking the hair on John's temple. His hand was warm. His voice was soft when he spoke and although John couldn't see his eyes properly, he somehow was sure that they expressed the tenderness that he had seen at the planetarium and at the pool.

“Sleep, my dear Watson”, the detective mouthed more than whispered, as the sound was barely audible. “You have already told me loads of times. It's somehow my turn now”.

He then smiled, but it wasn't the half-smile that didn't reach his eyes; it was genuine, it was gentle and it showed just how much Sherlock cared for John. It made John's heart melt in his dream.

The stroking was very pleasant. John wanted to ask Sherlock how was it possible that he had told him and was that why Sherlock said that he knew already, and why he was there in the middle of the night and-

Then there was a tiny kiss pressed to his temple, or maybe it was John's mind tricking him again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! I hope you liked the story. I had a great time writing it and I might consider writing a sequel too :) if you don't want me to and would rather if I shut up already and didn't write anything more in my life, just tell me in the comments. However, I would also appreciate if you pointed out what was good in the fic! :)


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